A More Perfect Union
by LLLady Southwark
Summary: ...The better to secure and perpetuate mutual friendship and intercourse... Two centuries separate them, but is it enough to keep them apart? Sequel to "The Colonel's Lady."
1. Baby One More Time

**Author's Note: First and foremost, if you have not read "The Colonel's Lady," the following will make little sense to you. And if you have—thank you for bearing with me despite my (longer than anticipated) absence.**

**Owing to the particular situations in which the characters were left at the end of the first part of this tale, this portion will be somewhat segmented, and I apologize if this is frustrating to anyone. Being the fabulous readers you are, I hope you won't abandon me just yet.**

**On that note—thank you so much for your ongoing words of encouragement. You have spurred me on, and one message in particular actually incited me to post this portion, even though I'm not as far along in the development in the story as I'd hoped to be. I appreciate your unflagging support!**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own William Tavington, in this chapter or any subsequent ones. His character and any others that appear in "The Patriot" are extrapolations, and I apologize if I have slighted any historical figures in the creative process—it was benignly meant.**_

* * *

_June 2009_

"TAVINGTON, Sir William. Born 1752, Liverpool. Died 1833, Shropshire."

I dropped the book I was holding onto the wooden shelf it had come from and backed away until I ran into the stacks behind me. Breathing hard, I tried to figure out why the page would possibly say that. I was seeing things—that was the only explanation. The stress and sleep deprivation that went along with exams, combined with the expected shock of seeing William's name, was causing me to hallucinate.

Gradually, my heart rate slowed, and I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to clear my head. Taking a deep breath, I stepped back toward the shelf and looked back down at the book.

There it was again. "Died 1833, Shropshire." How was that possible? My memories from that day at Cowpens were so vivid it could have happened yesterday: the Scotsman running into the hospital tent, panic written all over his face as he delivered the news that the field was lost, that "Colonel Tavington has fallen"; Bligh's sober expression, grief in his eyes, as he told me that there was nothing I could do. Had they both been wrong, then? Or was this some kind of awful mistake the _Who's Who_ fact-checkers were unaware of?

Steeling myself, I read the next couple of lines. "English General and 1st Baronet Tavington. Member of Parliament for Liverpool." I couldn't read anymore; it felt wrong, somehow. I slammed the book shut and stared down at the seemingly innocuous leather cover, my thoughts racing impossibly fast. Either the publishers had William Tavington mixed up with someone else entirely, or—or I had abandoned my husband, leaving him injured and alone on a battlefield.

"_Shit_," I muttered, eliciting a loud sigh from a study carrel to my left. I jumped at the reminder that there were people other than myself in the library, but then a thought struck me: maybe I should have someone read the page and make sure I was seeing it right? No, I was just being paranoid, and I'd already checked twice. Besides, I didn't want to know anymore about William's life without me, at least until I gathered my thoughts. Sliding the volume of _Who's Who_ back into its slot on the shelf, I marched back out of the library, steadfastly avoiding catching anyone's eye.

Once outside, I collapsed onto the first bench I came across. The metal slats, hot from the summer sun, were sweltering against my bare legs, but I hardly noticed. My attention was focused on the wedding band I now wore on my right hand, its diamond sparkling in the sun. A wave of emotions was rushing over me, feelings that I had pushed away ever since I'd left Cowpens.

At first, it had been hard. In the weeks after I'd returned, I had thought of a million questions I should have asked Bligh. Could everyone travel if they found a portal? Could you just go back and forth as you pleased? Did new portals open up, or was there a finite number? But after a while, I had realized I was never going to get answers to all of my questions, and even thinking about it was distancing me from my life here. So I'd made a promise to myself that I wouldn't dwell on my life in the past, that I would live life as it happened to me. And that had generally translated into refusing to think about the experience, or the people I'd met.

It had helped that I'd had to make up a story about where I had been during what turned out to be a three-month disappearance. I had appeared back in my own time in the backyard of an elderly couple who had been nice enough to let me use their phone to call my parents, all the while gawking at me. It didn't take me long to realize that it wasn't just my old-fashioned riding pants and boots they were intrigued by—apparently my face had been plastered all over the news during my absence. I knew that no explanation would be adequate, so all I could do was say I'd gotten lost in the woods that night and pretend that I didn't remember where I had been. My parents, thrilled to have me back, didn't push me, and after several visits to doctors of all kinds, they were convinced that the best thing for me would be to settle into a routine.

I had arrived at Harvard a week after classes started, meaning I'd missed all of the freshmen orientation events, but that was hardly the only thing that set me apart from my classmates. Whether or not I was actively thinking about it, my experience had shaped me more than I'd realized, and I felt a huge disconnect between me and the rest of the student body. Most of the time, it didn't bother me at all. I'd established a wide circle of casual friends, and I filled in the gap by focusing on my schoolwork, throwing myself into my American History classes. I made sure, though, that my research on the Revolution always focused on the colonial side; it gave me an unpleasant chill every time I read about General Cornwallis or Lord Rawdon, and I had wanted to avoid any chance of seeing William's name. Maybe some part of me had been afraid that I had made the wrong choice to leave. After all, I hadn't actually seen the battle that day—but Bligh had, and I had chosen to trust him.

But now—what the hell was I supposed to do? Should I stay here and pretend my carefully built life hadn't just been turned upside down? A shudder ran through me at the thought: if there was any hope at all that I could return to William, life here without him would be unbearable. I _had_ to go back. But that would mean leaving my parents all over again, and I couldn't hurt them like that without some explanation. Besides, how would I ever find another portal? The odds of just stumbling on one again weren't exactly in my favor. If Bligh were in this century, and if I could find him…but, I realized abruptly, I didn't even know his first name. Even if I came up with a course of action, I couldn't do anything about it immediately; I was flying home to South Carolina the next morning, and I still had to pack.

I stood up from the bench, swaying slightly. Between the heat and the emotional rush, I was feeling more than a little light-headed. Maybe I'd find some answers after a good night's sleep, and if not, then maybe things would be clearer once I got home. Pushing all thoughts of William firmly out of my head for the moment, I headed back across Harvard Square toward my dorm.

* * *

But I couldn't get him out of my head, not completely. I couldn't sleep at all that night, and though I'd finally fallen asleep on the flight home, I felt like I'd been awake for weeks by the time I met my dad in the Charleston airport.

He hugged me tightly, then stepped back, holding me at arm's length. "You all right, honey?" he said, a look of concern creasing his brow. "You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," I said, forcing a smile. "Just tired." The last thing I needed was for my parents to start worrying; though never the type to restrain me, they'd been very touchy ever since my disappearance, and it had been difficult even to convince them that it was a good idea for me to study in London next year.

He smiled at me and gave me another quick hug. "Well, I'm glad you're home. Here, let me get your suitcase."

I talked only as much as I needed to on the long drive out to our house, answering my dad's questions in monosyllables. All the while, my mind was racing. I needed to talk to someone, to pour out the whole story and get an opinion. But who would believe me? Obviously, my parents weren't an option, and I wasn't really close with any of my high school friends anymore, except…

"How's Paris these days?" said my dad, cutting into my frazzled thoughts.

"Oh! Um, good, I think," I stuttered, momentarily shocked by the way my father seemed to have read my mind. "I haven't talked to him in a while."

He gave me a sidelong glance. "I think you should call him when you get home, Jess. You two used to be so close."

"Yeah," I replied automatically, an idea brewing in the back of my mind. Could I confide in Paris? Would he let me? Things had never been the same between us since I'd gotten back, but our breakup had been a mutual decision; he had learned to let me go, and I—well, I'd found William. Paris and I were still friends, but my being away in Boston and always immersed in my studies had taken its toll on our relationship. This summer, though, we would both be home…

By the time my dad pulled the truck into our driveway, my mind was made up. I still trusted Paris more than almost anyone, and I _needed_ to talk about this—this huge question mark that was suddenly punctuating my future. It was clear to me now that if I was going to make a decision about what to do, I would need a second opinion, and there was no one else I could confide in. If anyone was going to believe my crazy story, it would be Paris.

My mother pounced on me when I walked into our house. "Sweetie!" she cried, wrapping me in a tight embrace. "It's so good to have you home!"

"It's good to be home," I said, pulling back and smiling at her. "Uh—Mom, would you mind if I went and called Paris? I want to see if he's around."

"Thinking of getting back together, are you?" She winked. "Well, I won't stand in the way of two lovebirds like you!"

It wasn't worth the trouble of correcting her—it would only lead to more questions. Giving her a strained smile, I grabbed my suitcase and lugged it up the stairs to my wonderfully familiar bedroom, collapsing onto the bed.

I lay there for a moment, eyes closed, thinking about nothing in particular, before I picked up the phone on my nightstand. My fingers dialed Paris's number automatically, forcibly reminding me how big a part of my life he had once been…

"Hello?" said a voice on the other end of the line, jerking me back to the present.

"Oh—hi, Mrs. Gruenblatt, it's Jess. Is Paris there?"

"Jessica! Your mom said you'd be in today—hold on just one moment, I'll call him…"

I drummed my fingers idly on the nightstand, but I didn't have long to wait. "Jess?" said Paris's voice, slightly breathless.

"Hey," I said. "I'm home. I—I wondered if I could come over later. Like sometime this afternoon?"

"Sure!" he said enthusiastically. "Can't wait to see you!"

"See you soon," I said. As I set the phone back into its cradle, I felt an odd sense of—not foreboding, exactly, but something akin to it. What would this conversation be like? Sure, Paris had been okay about our breakup, but I'd always felt that he still harbored feelings for me, and I didn't want to put him through any more pain. But I needed his support; I would go crazy if I didn't tell someone about this whole thing.

At the moment, though, all I wanted to do was sleep. I rolled over onto my stomach, buried my face in the pillow, and was asleep almost before my eyes were closed completely.

* * *

I awoke abruptly to a knock at the door. "Honey?" said my mom's voice. "Sorry to wake you, but weren't you supposed to go over to the Gruenblatt's? Paris just called."

Rubbing my eyes, I peered at my bedside clock, whose red numbers read 6:37. "Damn!" I said under my breath, shooting out of my bed and sliding into my flip-flops. I skidded over the door and flung it open, coming face-to-face with my clearly concerned mother. I smiled at her, brushing my bangs out of my face. "Sorry, Mom—I guess I was just really tired. I'm going to go over there now, but I'll be back for dinner."

"All right, sweetie," she said, her gaze following me as I brushed past her. I marched downstairs, through the kitchen and outside, pulling my hair into a messy ponytail as I went. It was sweltering out—that was one thing that never changed about South Carolina summers, whether it was the 18th century or the 21st. Even the two-minute walk up the road to Paris's was almost unbearable. By the time I reached the long, willow-lined driveway that lead up to their house, gravel crunching under my feet, I could think of nothing but how wonderful air conditioning would feel.

Paris's mom intercepted me at the front door and ushered me inside, enveloping me in a hug as she did so. "Jess, honey, it is such a treat to see you. How's life as an academic up there at Harvard?"

"It's been—okay," I said truthfully. "I'm glad to be home."

"I'll bet," she said, eyeing me closely. "You look worn out, sweetie. This summer will give you some time to relax. You and Paris can have all sorts of adventures, just like you used to."

"Hey," said Paris, emerging from the hallway and flashing me a wide grin, "You're late."

"I fell asleep," I replied lamely. He held out his arms to me, still smiling, and I rushed into them. A sudden compulsion to cry seized me, but I resisted it, clinging to Paris as though he were the only thing that could support me.

After a moment, he stepped back, taking in my bedraggled appearance. "You look terrible."

"Paris!" chided his mother. "I think you look lovely, Jessica. Maybe a little tired. Can I get you anything? Some sweet tea?"

"I'm all right, Mrs. Gruenblatt. But thanks," I said, smiling at her.

"We'll be downstairs," Paris said, taking my hand and leading down the hall to the stairs.

When we stepped into the basement den, my breath caught in my throat. I had spent so much of my free time here in high school…including that fateful graduation night—almost exactly two years ago—that we'd fought, and I'd run out into the woods….

"Jess," said Paris, bringing me back to the present. His brown eyes were filled with concern.

"Sorry," I said. "I really need to talk to you."

"Me too." There was an odd note in his voice. I hoped fervently that he wasn't planning to propose again; I really needed him to be a _friend_ right now.

"You first," I said, not without a sense of foreboding, but he shook his head.

"I can wait. Spit it out, Jess."

I took a deep breath. Now that I was about to explain what had happened for the first time, I wasn't sure how best to go about it. "Okay. You know when I was— the summer after graduation, when I was…gone?" His look of anxiety intensified and he nodded tersely. "Well, when I got back, I—lied," I continued, looking away from him. "I lied about not remembering where I had been. It's just I knew no one would believe me if I told the truth."

I looked back at Paris. His eyes were wide, his expression somewhere between concern and shock; we had never talked about my disappearance, I assumed because my parents had told him not to ask me about it. Well, if he was already shocked that I was talking about it at all, and that I had lied, he'd be permanently traumatized when he found out what I'd lied about. Taking another deep breath, I said, "I did get lost in the woods that night. I tripped over something, and I knocked myself out—and when I woke up, it was 1780. Like, the year 1780."

Once I started talking, the words poured out of me. I hadn't realized that I had been holding back so much by not telling anyone about it, but as I described my life at Peartree and Applebottom, I felt a profound sense of relief. I talked about my first weeks there, when Lawrence and Bligh were my only friends and General Cornwallis married me off to a man I couldn't imagine ever liking, let alone loving; about Edward Rutledge and the Declaration of Independence I had found at Peartree; about my kidnapping and the relationship I had developed with the dispatch rider, Gabriel; about Colonel Thoreau and his desire to ruin my marriage. But I found myself reluctant to speak too much about my relationship with William, both because I didn't want to hurt Paris any more than I had to, and because it seemed somehow too private to talk about just yet.

Paris himself listened to my entire narrative without interrupting, but the expressiveness of his face made it easy to gauge his continual reaction to what I was saying. Once the initial shock at the fact of my time travel wore off, he followed my story with varying degrees of distress. When I got to Cowpens, Bligh's revelation, and my return, he focused his gaze on the floor rather than on me, so that I could no longer tell what he was thinking. I finished by telling him about my trip to the library at Harvard yesterday—_was it really only yesterday?_—and what I had found in the _Who's Who_.

"And now—I have no idea what I should do." I swallowed hard and turned to look at him directly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I didn't want to hurt you."

"So am I to believe that what you did was an act of compassion? Lying to me?" He looked injured, more so than I could have imagined when I decided to tell him.

"I _couldn't_! I had to put it behind me and make _this_ my life instead of dwelling in the past! I didn't have a choice!" Paris was my only hope; if he wouldn't support me, then I had no one else to turn to.

"You _chose_ not to tell me," he said, his eyes boring into mine. "If you make your choices alone, how can I trust you?"

"I didn't choose to go there in the first place, and I definitely didn't choose to get married!" That much, at least, was true—though if I was being honest with myself, I had known on some level that it was never going to work out between Paris and me. A silence fell, heavy with unspoken words; I avoided looking at him.

"Where's the ring I gave you?" he asked suddenly. "The promise ring? You were wearing it, weren't you? When you—went back?"

_The ring_. I had given it to William as a Christmas present. "Yes, I was. I gave it to—to my husband." He didn't say anything, turning his gaze back to the ground. "I'm so sorry, Paris. And I understand if you don't want to talk to me right now, but—I really need your help." Impulsively, I reached over and took his hand in mine. "You're the only person I can trust with this." He looked at me, but he didn't say anything. I kept talking. "When I read that line in the book yesterday, I almost had a heart attack. And now—that day at Cowpens just keeps running through my mind, over and over. I feel like I abandoned him. What am I supposed to do?"

I said it rhetorically, but to my surprise, Paris responded. "Do you love him?"

"I—I—" I stuttered, taken aback by the bluntness of the question. But Paris was looking at me intently; obviously, he expected an answer. I closed my eyes briefly, exhaling, then opened them again to meet his gaze. "Yes, I do."

He sighed. "Then you owe him your allegiance," he said, giving me a sad smile. He squeezed my hand gently and released it. "You have to go back."

My jaw dropped. "I have to—_what_?" Whatever I'd been imagining Paris's response would be, it wasn't that.

"You have to go back, Jess." His voice was sincere, but I couldn't believe what he was saying.

"But—I—" I stammered.

"You do want to, right?"

"Well, yes, but—how will I—I mean, I don't even really know how I got back _here_!"

"We'll figure it out," he said earnestly. His eyes met mine, and in their depths, I found honesty and forgiveness.

I was still panicking on the surface, but somewhere in my subconscious, I could feel that this was the right decision. I reached over to hug Paris. He patted me on the back, and a tear leaked out of the corner of my eye. Abruptly, and to my complete surprise, I found myself crying as though I'd never stop. I clung to him for a minute, pulling away when I had some control over myself again. "S—s—sorry," I sniffled.

"It's okay." He smiled at me and handed me a tissue from the box behind him.

"Thanks," I said thickly, dabbing at my eyes. "So—now what?"

"Hmm," said Paris, rubbing his chin in thought. "Could you go back the way you came?"

"No, Bligh told me the portals only work once." My sudden rush of emotion behind me, I felt more clear-headed than I had in months. Suddenly, I had a purpose.

"The way is shut," mused Paris. "Well, that might be for the best. It's been two years."

"What do you—oh! You're right!" I hadn't even considered that time would have passed in the past, too—who knew if William would even still be in the States by the time I managed to find a portal? "Well, now it would be June 1782…I don't think there's any way British troops would still be here by then. He must have gone back to England."

"England!" said Paris, his eyes lighting up. "And in September, you're going—"

"—to study in England!" I finished. "But I still don't know how I'd possibly find a portal without Bligh's help…"

"Research," he replied. "We have all summer."

I thought for a moment. "Do you think—Peartree couldn't still be standing, could it?"

"It's possible," he said. "I know Edward Rutledge had a house in Charleston. We could at least go there."

I nodded, then leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Paris, really. Thank you. For believing me, and for being so nice."

He shook his head. "That's what friends are for, Jess. You mean a lot to me. I want you to be happy."

I smiled at him, then stood up from the couch. "Well—I'd better get home. My parents haven't seen me much, and you know how they get."

He grinned at me, following me back upstairs. "Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow." He held the front door open for me and gave me a small wave as I left the house.

It wasn't until I was home that I remembered that Paris had said he needed to talk to me about something. Oh, well, he'd said it could wait.

* * *

After dinner, I went up to my room and opened my laptop, settling onto the bed in front of it. I was going to figure out exactly where I had been between June 1780 and January 1781—and then Paris and I were going to track my journey. But first, there was some business to be taken care of.

I made my way to my Facebook profile and stared at it for a moment. _Jessica Katerinalila Fitzpatrick. Relationship Status: It's Complicated._ That's what it had said ever since I'd created it just after I'd started at Harvard. It _was_ complicated; the whole thing was complicated, and bizarre, and I'd had no clue how to deal with it. I had had my fair share of admirers at school, but I definitely wasn't ready for another relationship, and so I had pushed them all away. And the situation remained complicated, despite my lack of a boyfriend, because of my love for William and my uncertainty about Paris.

Now, though, I needed to change it, more as a tangible symbol of the decision I had made than any other reason. Purposefully, I clicked on "Edit" and then on "Relationships." When I returned to my profile, it read, _Relationship Status: Married_. I felt better already. Let everyone else think it was a joke; I knew the truth, and I had made my choice.

* * *

**AN: Once again, I apologize for the segmentation. It won't be long before everything becomes clear. Vielen Dank to TTT & Publius for inspirational titles. Thank you to everyone who has continued reading; reviews make updates come faster ;-)**

* * *


	2. I'm Bringing Sexy Back

_January 1781_

Even before he opened his eyes, he knew something was terribly wrong. A throbbing fire in his abdomen contrasted with a dull pain to the left of his throat. His mouth was dry, but still he could taste the lingering metallic saltiness that indicated blood mingled with a bitter medicinal residue. And around him he heard: what? Not the thunderous cannons and clashing swords that meant battle, but a consistent hum of voices, low and blended in a musical buzz that prevented him from determining what was being said. The air held the unpleasant odors of blood and singed flesh. He must be in hospital—but how? He had known when the rebel Martin had plunged the bayonet into his abdomen that the wound would be a fatal one. And yet…

Colonel Tavington took a breath and wrenched open his eyes, but this did nothing to elucidate his appraisal of the situation. Even the dim light seemed blindingly bright to his sore eyes, and he could make out nothing but a few obscured figures moving about the room. It _was_ a room, not a tent; where, then, could he be? The plain wooden walls offered no clue, nor did the cots he could now see lining the perimeter of the room. And why was no one paying him any heed?

He cleared his throat, preparing to alert the other occupants of the chamber that he was awake—but when he did so, the stinging in his throat blossomed into a sudden hot flash of pain so intense that he cried out involuntarily. Which only made matters worse, though it did have the desired effect of drawing attention to himself.

A moment later, a portly surgeon had materialized at his bedside. "Colonel Tavington!" he said, peering down into Tavington's face. "Very good to see that you're with us, sir!"

Tavington, ignoring the pain in his throat, frowned at the impertinent way the surgeon was invading his space, but when he opened his mouth to protest vociferously, the rotund man preempted him. "I'll have to ask you not to speak for a few days, Colonel—the wound to your throat was quite severe, and any vocal strain now could mean you won't make a full recovery."

Tavington frowned more intently at this suggestion. He detested to be fussed over, and he could do nothing in his present state to avoid this, save shoving his unfortunate attendant. He raised his left arm to try it, but it was strangely heavy, and after several unsuccessful attempts to push the interfering surgeon away from his abdominal wound, he gave up. This would be an extraordinarily tiresome recuperation.

And how, he wondered suddenly, had the authorities succeeded in keeping away his wife? She was a persuasive woman, and never before had an insignificant thing like an order not to interfere kept her from doing just that. Whoever was responsible for her absence was to be commended; the last thing he needed at present was another person to fuss over him, especially one who fussed as persistently as Kat was wont to do.

"Now, Colonel," said the bustling surgeon, finally stepping back, "it's imperative that you stay as still as possible for the next several days. The abdominal wound is progressing as well as can be hoped, but it's quite a stroke of luck you're doing as well as you are, and we certainly don't want to jeopardize any progress you've made thus far."

This comment made Tavington want to ask precisely how long he had been lying here before he regained consciousness, but of course that wasn't an option. And anyway, the bloody surgeon was still talking. "…should make your throat feel better. Now, open wide!"

He was prepared to do no such thing, but before he could even think about how to protest, the plump surgeon had seized his lower jaw, thrust it downward, and poured a lot of thick, foul-smelling medicine down his throat. It was all Tavington could do not to cough up the lot of it, but instead he forced himself to swallow, knowing it would be less painful that way.

As the surgeon scurried off, Tavington sighed impatiently to himself. This would indeed be an interminable healing process if sleeping was the only thing he was permitted to do to pass the time.

* * *

When next he awoke, it was to an unpleasantly familiar voice assaulting his ears. "Colonel Tavington!" chirruped Lieutenant Lawrence brightly, steadfastly ignoring the ferocious scowl that Tavington directed at him the moment he'd identified his visitor. "Oh, it's _such_ a delight to see you looking so well, sir!"

As Tavington blinked away the blurriness in his eyes, he saw that Lawrence's right arm was in a sling. Lawrence followed the direction of his gaze and puffed out his chest proudly. "Battle wound!" he said happily, indicating the sling and settling into a chair next to the Colonel's bed. "The doctor thought he'd have to amputate, but it's healing perfectly! It _is_ difficult to do some things with only one hand, you know, Colonel. I've had an _awful_ time trying to exercise my sword! But Günther promised he'd teach me to handle my weaponry properly with my left hand."

Much as Tavington would have liked to upbraid Lawrence for his absurdity, at the moment he could only glare venomously at his lieutenant. Lawrence, however, didn't seem to take the hint, and was prattling on happily about his bloody horse. "…very touch-and-go, you know, but he performed _marvelously_! Lucky I'd oiled him down so thoroughly beforehand, don't you think, sir?"

He looked eagerly at Tavington, at which point the latter had an idea. Raising his right hand in the air, Tavington mimed writing, staring at Lawrence to ensure that the twiddlepoop took his meaning. After a moment, Lawrence seemed to understand. "Oh! You'd like to write something, Colonel? Well, why didn't you just say so?"

Tavington rolled his eyes, then pointed at his throat. Lawrence's eyes widened. "Oh, but of course! You can't speak! Well, sir, I haven't got my quill handy at the moment, unfortunately, but I'll be certain to have it inked and ready the next time I come!"

Tavington nodded curtly. It was difficult, but occasionally one could get _some_ things through to Lawrence. Still, being mind-numbingly bored was almost better than suffering through the lieutenant's undiluted conversation. Lawrence seemed determined not to stop talking under any circumstances; his chattering had a forced, almost frantically enthusiastic quality about it. Where, Tavington wondered, was Bligh, usually a tempering influence on his companion? Once he had paper, he would find out, but at present, there was no steering—or stopping—Lawrence's drivel. Though he supposed that even the lieutenant's nonsense was an improvement upon lying in silence, waiting for his wounds to heal.

It wasn't long at all, however, before he realized that this was false: utter boredom, with the prospect of no conversation at all for the remainder of the day, was infinitely preferably to being forced to listen to Lawrence's continuous stream of gibberish about his horse, his battle wounds, and his love for crochet. The lieutenant moved from topic to ridiculous topic, a strained smile fixed on his countenance, but Tavington spotted an odd lack of the hearsay that was generally the crux of Lawrence's banter. Where was mention of Bligh, of Edward Rutledge—of his wife? Even blatant gossip would be preferable to talk of Lawrence's scarf, the fall of which he was now describing in detail. "…lost in battle," he was saying, looking suddenly morose, "but it served its purpose. You know, Colonel, I should never have been able to surmount that rebel if I hadn't had the idea to make my dear scarf into a blindfold!"

Tavington, who had been doing his best not to listen, was taken aback by this statement, but he decided upon reflection that he had absolutely no interest in learning how exactly Lawrence had managed to overcome an enemy combatant by blindfolding him with a scarf. If he was ever going to have a moment's peace, he would have to drive the lieutenant away—and Lawrence didn't seem to be responding to his fearsome grimaces. The only thing for it was to feign sleep. Accordingly, Tavington turned his head determinedly away from Lawrence and squeezed his eyes closed tightly, trying not to frown too conspicuously.

Lawrence, to his credit, realized quite soon that his audience had abandoned him in favor of rest. He soon ceased his storytelling and stood up from his chair, but didn't leave. After a moment, he sighed deeply and murmured, "_Such_ a pity. I'm just thankful I'm not the one to tell him."

The lieutenant marched away, but Tavington suddenly felt far from relieved. Tell him—what? Now far from sleep, he lay silently in his bed, letting the sounds of the hospital rush around him in waves and, quite against his will, pondering what Lawrence could have meant.

* * *

The next morning, Tavington managed to communicate to the fat surgeon via hand gestures that he required some sort of mental stimulus. He was accordingly provided with what passed for a newspaper in this part of the world, along with some parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink. He set these aside and opened _The Royal South Carolina Gazette_, harrumphing inwardly as he surveyed its contents—or lack thereof. He was just perusing a list of the colony's self-professed Loyalists when he was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"I say, Colonel, you look splendid!" boomed General Lord Cornwallis, settling down into the chair Lawrence had occupied the day before. He looked for all the world like a man at his leisure, but for a certain strained quality in his smile that Tavington had never before witnessed. "Lieutenant Lawrence informed me that you were awake, but I had no hopes of seeing you looking so sprightly! How are you feeling? Well, I hope!"

Tavington nodded in what he hoped was a manner that didn't belie his apprehension. There had to be a reason Cornwallis had come to visit, apart from professional courtesy. And sure enough, pleasantries over with, the smile cleared abruptly from the General's face.

"I'm afraid that it is incumbent upon me to impart some bad news, Tavington," he said. "To begin with, I think you must have realized that the rebels took the field at Cowpens."

Tavington felt an unpleasant rush of adrenaline mingling with the dread in the pit of his stomach. He had suspected, of course, given how the battle was going before his personal clash with Martin had rendered him unconscious. But it was one thing to have a sinking suspicion, and quite another to be told by one's superior that one had, through one's own fault, lost a battle. And now—his intangible trophy, the reputation that had been accorded him by virtue of his continual triumph in battle, his flawless record that he had hoped would be leverage enough to win him an enhanced position in the new order once the rebellion was quashed—it had vanished.

"The troops scattered, I'm afraid, after—after you fell," continued Cornwallis seriously, looking somewhat concerned at the way the blood had rushed from Tavington's face. "A company of the 71st Highlanders and naturally your own Dragoons attempted to defend the field, but Captain Schoen was unable to maintain order and so called a retreat. The rebels captured a large number of our troops, but the wounded that the troops were able to transport—yourself included, obviously—were brought back here to Hillsborough. North Carolina," he clarified in response to Tavington's questioning look. "But I am afraid, Colonel, that Lieutenant Bligh was not reported to be among those taken prisoner, nor was he among the casualties. He appears to have—deserted."

Quite honestly, this came as more of a shock to Tavington than had the news of his defeat, if less of a disappointment. Bligh had always seemed to him the epitome of a stoically loyal soldier, the type to take hardship and punishment as it came and without complaint—yet now he was revealed as a deserter? It simply didn't add up. And why had Lawrence said nothing about it?

"Lieutenant Lawrence seems to be in denial about his companion's departure," Cornwallis said sadly, answering Tavington's unasked question. "He refuses to talk about Bligh, except to say that he is certain Bligh had some sort of mission to fulfill. I presume you know nothing about this, Colonel?"

Tavington shook his head, baffled. What sort of mission could Lawrence possibly think Bligh had been assigned that would involve abandoning the Dragoons during active combat? But there was another matter that was plaguing him. Seizing the ink, quill and parchment that the surgeon had brought him earlier, he quickly scribbled a question. _The date?_

"Today is the 25th of January," replied Cornwallis, looking at him questioningly.

Tavington felt another wave of shock. Had he truly been unconscious for a week? And if so, _how_ had they managed to keep his wife away for that length of time? He would have to ask Cornwallis where she was being kept, but the General had already resumed his narrative, frowning.

"I ordered the army north as soon as we received word about Cowpens. We reached Hillsborough the next day. Unfortunately, however—" he sighed heavily, brow furrowing into a familiar expression of annoyance— "Edward Rutledge managed to abscond with a horse in the night during the march. Reports indicate that he rode north into Virginia, but we have no way of locating him."

Normally, Tavington would have felt some surge of negative emotion at the news of an escaped prisoner, particularly one as important as Rutledge. Certainly he experienced a flash of irritation at the implicit suggestion that Rutledge could outwit His Majesty's Army, but Tavington's overwhelming emotion was—joy. No more would he have to contend with Rutledge's drawling dandiness, his ample neckerchiefs, the vigorousness of his violin. At least there was _some_ good news to be had. Though he did wonder what on earth Lawrence would do with himself now, what with Rutledge escaping, Bligh deserting, and that bloody Milner fellow being ordered away to fight John Paul Jones. Lawrence's social life was hardly a concern at present, but thinking of the lieutenant reminded Tavington of what he had said yesterday as he left. '_I'm just thankful I'm not the one to tell him'_…

Cornwallis was staring into space, silent; it seemed that he had reached the end of his briefing, and yet there was a gaping hole in his narrative. Tavington couldn't imagine why the General, one of his wife's chief admirers, had failed to mention her completely. He picked up the quill again and set it to paper once more, this time scrawling simply, _My wife?_

The instant he laid eyes on the page, Cornwallis's pensive expression crumpled, and Tavington knew that something was horribly wrong. A cold pit of dread formed in his stomach as the General began to speak. "Mrs. Tavington is—is—she went missing," he said, his voice low and slightly hoarse. "The morning of the battle. We suspect that she rode to Cowpens. There was a horse gone from the stables at Applebottom that our troops recovered in the woods near the battlefield. In the horse's saddlebag was—a Dragoon's coat." He paused. "It appears entirely possible that she rode _with _the Dragoons that morning, Colonel."

The initial dismay that Tavington had felt was simmering into hot, resentful wrath. Kat had not only disobeyed him, lied to him, but she had also abandoned him to die on the field of battle. When he found her—no, that particular line of thought would do no good at present; what was needed now was more information. Gritting his teeth and looking steadfastly away from Cornwallis's sorrowful, sympathetic visage, he scribbled a question. _What has been done to recover her?_

The General sighed heavily. "We sent out scouts for several days after the battle. There was no sign of her, save the horse, and there were no reports of a woman among the prisoners taken by the rebels. We must assume the worst, Tavington." His voice cracked and he turned away quickly, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief.

Fortunately, Cornwallis took Tavington's grimace for a demonstration of grief. Holding the handkerchief over his mouth to hide his quivering chin, he stood, gazing down at Tavington with watery eyes. "I shall leave you now, my dear Colonel. Try to find solace where you can. And if there is anything I can do to help…" He trailed off, clapped a hand on Tavington's shoulder, and rushed out of the hospital room without a backward glance.

'_We must assume the worst.'_ That implied, of course, that Cornwallis believed Kat to be dead. Tavington dismissed this notion immediately as sentimental nonsense. She was most certainly still alive. He knew this for a certainty, though he could not say how. In any event, her death would hardly be the worst calamity that could have befallen him. What shame was there, after all, in having a dead wife? One had only to look at the General himself for an answer: though heartbroken by his own wife's demise several years before, his reputation had certainly not suffered. If anything, the circumstance of being a widower afforded Cornwallis a certain dignity—which, of course, he squandered with his absurd matchmaking schemes, but that was beside the point. Having one's wife meet an untimely end was, though hardly ideal, nonetheless far from the _worst_ that could happen. Had Kat been tragically lost in childbirth, for instance, Tavington would have been free to mourn her.

But as it now stood, he looked like a weak fool who was incapable of maintaining control over his wife. His rage boiled into hatred as he considered his plight. If she still lived, as he believed, he _would_ find her. And when he did…

The quill that he was still clenching in his fist snapped, releasing a spray of ink across his bedsheets and bringing Tavington back to the present. Much as he would like to take action—any action—toward avenging his own honor, he realized that he would have to recuperate first. To that end, he swallowed his medicine meekly when the corpulent surgeon brought it several minutes later, even allowing his abdominal wound to be examined without protest. Inwardly, however, he was seething.

He _would_ have his revenge.

* * *

**AN: You guys are terrific. I mean really, you're fantastic for my morale; it's so much easier to write when I know you're all still reading! Actually, several reviews were so very à propos that I must respond to them—**

**Equestriad: I'm fairly confident that you are in fact correct about Paris's secret, given your other observations!**

**ABabblingBrook: Thank you for the idea! You might want to look again…**

**Luthien Saralonde: Thanks for your consistent support—really, just keep nagging me, please :-)**

**As always, to TTT, world's most persistent beta: cheers thanks cheers.**


	3. Tutti Frutti Summer Love

_July 2009_

I spent the next several weeks pretty much exclusively with Paris. To some extent it was like being in high school again: I remembered why I'd always loved hanging out with him, why we'd gotten together in the first place. He was just so comfortable to be around…and yet, something was different, and I couldn't quite put my finger on what. At first I'd thought it was me, that falling in love for real had changed something about me; and in part, it had. But as time passed, I realized that it was Paris who was truly altered. From time to time I wondered what he had been planning to tell me the night I got back, but somehow I never got around to asking.

For one thing, we were far too busy, either planning my eventual return to William or covering our tracks so my parents wouldn't get too suspicious. At times I wondered how I would possibly pull it off—disappearing again with the short leash my parents had me on, not to mention how I would be able to leave them, and Paris, behind again…but every time this thought occurred to me, I pushed it away quickly. I had more immediate things to worry about.

Like where on earth Peartree actually was. After our initial discussion, Paris and I were determined to find it—but after doing loads of research, I wasn't any closer to finding the plantation among the dozens of colonial-era ones that still existed in South Carolina. So we decided to visit them all.

No one could understand why we were suddenly so interested in old houses. Paris's mother was particularly perplexed. "Jess, honey, I know you've always been fond of history," she said affectionately, giving my shoulder a motherly pat as we headed out the door one morning. "But I just don't know what's gotten into you, Paris! You've never been interested in anything but work you can do with your hands. Where has this sudden passion for history come from?"

Paris merely shrugged, taking a large bite of his banana, one hand on the doorknob. "I don't know, Mom. You make it sound like a person can only have one interest. Anyway, I'm not a blacksmith yet!" He slammed the door behind him and followed me to his car.

I grinned at him over my shoulder. "I'm not sure how convincing that was."

He glared at me. "She bought it. It's all about finding the right leverage." He unlocked his car, a rusty old chocolate-brown Honda he had affectionately named Willy Wonka because of its color and its tendency to behave unexpectedly. I climbed inside and immediately rolled the window down—South Carolina in July wasn't pleasant without air conditioning, but Willy Wonka tended to stall out at inopportune moments if the air was on.

"So—where to?" Paris said, turning the key in the ignition. He looked at me expectantly as the car rumbled into life.

I sighed. The first place we had gone was Edward Rutledge's house in downtown Charleston—which was beautiful, vast, and completely devoid of useful information. The tour guide had nearly kicked me off the tour for asking too many questions, and I'd been frustrated almost to the point of tears by the time we left.

Since there were no leads directly related to Rutledge, Paris and I had no choice but to visit every old house we could find. We had already been to two of the larger plantations in the immediate vicinity of Charleston. Beautiful though they were, I had known instantly that neither Middleton Place nor Boone Hall would yield whatever information I sought. At Middleton Place, I'd learned that Edward Rutledge had married a Middleton daughter, but this didn't help me at all: not only was there no further information on where he might have lived, I simply couldn't imagine the Rutledge I knew courting a woman. And so we were no closer to finding Peartree than when we started.

I drummed my fingers on the dashboard, thinking. "How about—Charles Coatesworth Pinckney's farm? The one near Boone Hall? He would _have_ to know Rutledge, right?"

Paris frowned as he urged Willy Wonka onto the road. "I guess it's worth a try. Can't hurt, anyway." We drove slowly past my house and the adjoining fields, and Paris pointed out the window toward the pastures. "Look. The horses are restless."

I looked over and saw that the horses were behaving oddly, prancing about in the heat, tails waving. "Huh. That is weird."

We drove mostly in silence. I stared out the window, watching endless fields slip by and wondering if I was doing the right thing. I didn't feel like I had any choice but to go back…but what if I couldn't find the way? And I couldn't bring myself even to consider what William must think of me by now…

When we reached our destination at last, neither of us was sure we had made it to the right place. Instead of the sprawling grandeur of the first two plantations we'd visited, the house we found here was extremely modest, no bigger than mine. I found myself disappointed, but I refused to respond to the meaningful glance that Paris threw me as we walked inside. I knew as well as he did that we were running out of leads, but there was no way I'd give up.

The weathered floorboards creaked as Paris and I entered the house. A kindly-looking older woman wearing a nametag that said 'Henrietta' rushed forward, obviously thrilled that we were there. "Good morning!" she said, smiling broadly. "Two? We have a tour starting in just five minutes!"

"Actually, we just wanted—" Paris began, but I interrupted, elbowing him.

"That sounds great, thanks." Paris glared at me, but I gave him a quelling look. We might learn something that pertained to our quest—and in any case, I was a sucker for old houses. He sighed loudly, resigned to his fate.

"Right this way," said Henrietta, leading us down a dark, narrow passageway. She turned back to smile at us again. "I am just so happy to see young people taking an interest in history! This is a national historic site, you know. But there just aren't too many folks these days who even know who C.C. Pinckney was."

"He's not exactly the most celebrated founding father," I agreed. "How large a role did he play in state government?"

"Well, he was certainly active, though his primary contributions were obviously on the national level," she answered, as the passage we were in opened out into a small parlor. "The Pinckneys did their part for South Carolina—though of course they were nothing to the Rutledges. Now, if you'll just wait for one moment, Bill should be along for the tour."

I wanted desperately to question Henrietta more about one Rutledge in particular, but she was already gone. Determined to corner her after the tour, I looked over at Paris to see if he was as excited as I was about a potential source of information. But his attention was focused entirely on the person who'd just entered the room. A guy about our age, he was tall and blond, with striking cheekbones and intense eyes—and his face lit up when he saw Paris.

"Bill!" said Paris delightedly. "What are you doing here?"

Bill grinned. "I work here. What about you? And more importantly—who's your friend?"

"This is Jess. She dragged me here. She's a history major." Paris gave an odd half-laugh.

"Welcome," said Bill, giving me a strained smile. He selfconsciously ran a hand through his long hair. "Well—should we start the tour?"

I didn't really understand what was going on. I was dying to ask Paris how he knew this guy, but there didn't seem to be any way to be covert about it. "Sure, that would be great!"

As we meandered through the parts of the house that were open to the public, I got the sense that Bill was probably a great tour guide most of the time. He obviously knew a lot about C.C. Pinckney, the house, and the Revolution, but he seemed nervous. He kept stumbling over his words and shooting me odd, intense looks. All in all, I was relieved when the tour had ended and I could mosey through the gift shop.

Paris wasn't with me when I reached the gift shop, but I wasn't concerned—Henrietta was there, standing behind the cash register. Resolved to get answers to my questions, I walked straight up to her.

She smiled warmly. "Did you enjoy the tour, honey?"

"It was great," I lied. "But I had a few more questions."

"Of course," she said, looking puzzled. "What can I help you with?"

"Before the tour, you mentioned the Rutledges," I began. "What kind of relationship did the Pinckneys have with the Rutledges? Were they family friends?"

She frowned. "I'm not sure I would put it that way. They certainly knew each other, and I know that Colonel Pinckney—that would be C.C.'s second cousin—fled with John Rutledge when the British took Charleston. But beyond that connection, I wouldn't say there was more than a general acquaintance between the families, no. Why do you ask?"

"History project," I said quickly. "I'm a U.S. History major at Harvard."

Henrietta looked impressed. "I see. Well, if you're really interested in the Rutledges, you might try visiting that plantation."

My heartbeat quickened. "Plantation?"

"I suppose it's not really so much of a plantation anymore," she said, frowning. "The grounds were all but destroyed in the war. But they've been restoring the house the last few years. From what I've heard, they've tried to get it back to just how it looked during the Revolution."

I could barely breathe, though she'd said nothing definite. "Do you know—whose house was it?"

"Well, there's some debate about that. Some folks say it was a southern property of the Lees—you know, the Virginia family—but more than a few people are saying it belonged to the Rutledges. I have a friend who works down there—reckons it was Edward Rutledge's. But of course he's no expert. Are you all right, honey?" She looked at me with concern, and I realized I must have gone pale.

"I'm fine," I said quickly. "How do I find it? The plantation?"

"I'm not certain it's open for tours just yet," Henrietta said. "But I'll write down the address for you. Just a minute." She turned around, humming as she flipped through a large book. A moment later she handed me a piece of paper. "There you go. Are you sure you're okay?"

I glanced at the address she'd written down. It was northwest of where we were, and I wasn't sure how to get there. "Great," I said, my heart still pounding. "Thank you." I suddenly remembered that I'd lost Paris and turned around with the intent of going to find him, but he was already entering the gift shop. He looked upset, and I wondered what had happened.

"Let's go," he said abruptly, not meeting my eyes. Brushing past me, he was out the door before I could protest.

I gave Henrietta an apologetic smile. "Thanks again for your help. I really appreciate it."

"My pleasure," she said, giving me a friendly wave. "Good luck on your history project!"

Paris was already in the car by the time I reached it. I bent down to look at him through the open window. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he said, still not looking at me.

I sighed and walked around to the other side of the car. I still didn't understand what the problem was. I was bursting with inner excitement at the information Henrietta had shared with me, but I knew I couldn't tell Paris until he was in a better mood.

The moment we were back on the road, I turned to him. "What was that all about?"

"What was what all about?" he said, staring resolutely ahead.

"How do you know that guy? Bill?"

"We met at archery practice," he said, still not looking at me.

"Archery practice?" I said, baffled. "Since when did you decide to learn archery?"

He ignored me. "He's a jerk."

Now I was really confused. "Who? Bill?" Paris nodded mutely. "But you seemed glad to see him!" I protested.

"Well, I wasn't," he snapped. "Can we talk about something else?"

I didn't say anything. If he wasn't going to be forthcoming with his information, neither would I. Our ride was silent, but much less companionably so than that morning's had been. By the time we reached Paris's house, I was ready to scream. I practically leapt out of the car, slamming the door so hard the whole vehicle shook. Stomping down the driveway, I called back over my shoulder. "By the way, I found Peartree."

Paris looked stricken, but I marched resolutely away. I heard the sound of gravel crunching, and I knew he was coming after me. I kept walking, but a moment later his hand caught mine and he pulled me around to face him. "You _found_ it?" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Gee, I wonder," I said sarcastically. I tried to walk away again, but he pulled me back.

"Where is it?" When I still didn't answer, he sighed. "I'm sorry, Jess," he said pleadingly. "Really, I am. I'll explain later. But for now—will you please just tell me?"

I gave a terse account of my conversation with Henrietta. "She gave me this," I finished, handing him the piece of paper, now crumpled from being in my pocket. "It's the address."

"We'll go," he said decidedly. "Thursday."

"Why Thurs—oh," I said, realizing. My birthday was Thursday. I remembered the last birthday I had spent at Peartree, and tears filled my eyes. "That's perfect," I said, smiling wanly at Paris.

"Good. It's a date." He pulled me toward him and hugged me tightly. When we pulled apart, I felt immeasurably better.

* * *

I was a complete wreck from the time we got home, counting down the hours until we'd be at Peartree. I was so sure I'd find—_something_, some clue that I was doing the right thing—or at least some sign that would tell me for sure I hadn't just imagined the whole thing.

I tossed and turned all of Wednesday night, and when my alarm finally rang on Thursday morning, I jolted awake as though someone had thrown cold water on me. I sprang out of bed, feeling as if I'd barely slept at all, and surveyed myself in the mirror hanging on my wall. "Relax," I told myself, and taking a deep breath, I bounded downstairs to the kitchen.

My mother greeted me with a hug. "Happy birthday, sweetie!" she said, ushering me into my chair. "What would you like for breakfast? I bought some English muffins yesterday."

"Sounds good," I said, smiling weakly at her and taking a sip of the hot tea she set on the table in front of me. Truthfully, I didn't feel like eating anything, but I didn't want to arouse suspicion.

"I can't believe how soon you're leaving for London," said my mom a minute later, sliding the muffin across the table to me and settling into the chair opposite me. "It seems like you've hardly been home at all, and now you're going away again."

"Mom," I protested, taking a bite of the muffin, "I'm not leaving until September."

"Yes, I know, but it's already the middle of July!" she said illogically.

I sighed. It wasn't going to be easy to leave. I decided to change the subject. "Paris and I are going to visit a plantation today."

"Another one? Jessica, don't you think this is getting to be a bit much? You must have seen every plantation in the Carolinas by now!"

I frowned at her. "It's my birthday, Mom. And I've been looking for this one for a while. It's part of my research for school."

"It's summer, Jess," she said, standing up and reaching over to ruffle my hair. "You shouldn't study so much."

Pushing my chair back, I stood up as well. "I'm going to go get ready and head over to the Gruenblatts'. I'll be back for dinner."

"Have fun, sweetie," called my mother, but I was already upstairs.

* * *

It was a gorgeous day, blue-skied and sunny, with a breeze that made the sweltering heat seem less stuffy—the perfect day for a roadtrip, if I hadn't been so jittery. Paris kept trying to engage me in conversation, but I couldn't focus on anything except my thoughts.

The third time he asked me a question, I snapped to attention. "What?"

He glared at me. "I asked you how much further it's supposed to be."

"Oh! Sorry," I said. "Um…it should be soon…maybe 2 miles or so, and then we turn left."

Paris gave me a sidelong glance. "Thanks. Are you okay, Jess? I mean really."

"Fine," I said quickly, resolving to pay attention to Paris. "Thanks for coming with me."

"No problem," he said. "As long as Bill doesn't work at Peartree, too."

"Why do you keep talking about Bill?" I asked, curious. "That's like the tenth time you've mentioned him."

"I don't keep talking about him!" Paris snapped. "I never talk about him! He's boring! He's a—"

"Okay, okay, sorry," I said. This guy must really have done something to Paris. I was about to try to weasel it out of him somehow when I saw the sign. _Historical Plantation, 2 mi._ "Left!"

"Hard to starboard!" he said, wheeling Willy Wonka around. I wasn't at all sure that starboard meant left, but I was hardly up on my nautical terms.

Almost before I could read the signs, I saw the long, familiar driveway that meant Peartree. "Paris!" I shrieked, gesticulating frantically.

"I'm on it!" he said, easing the car into the driveway.

I was speechless. It looked both completely familiar and utterly foreign—the trees lining the drive up to the house were the same, but where there had been stables there was now a parking lot. And I saw no sign of the beautiful orchard that had been Edward Rutledge's pride and Lieutenant Lawrence's joy. But the house—it looked bigger than I remembered, and much older, but it was Peartree.

I climbed out of the car before Paris had finished parking it. "Jess!" he said. "Wait!" But I was already walking toward the house as if in a daze. When I reached the veranda, I paused, suddenly light-headed. It was the wrong color—I thought—but perhaps the wood had been painted green when I lived there? I couldn't remember.

I felt an arm slide around my shoulders and looked over to see Paris gazing at me with concern. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?"

"Yes," I said, and then more firmly, "_yes_. I _have_ to, Paris. I'll be okay."

"All right, if you're sure…" he said, still watching me closely. Together, we walked onto the veranda and through the front door.

The foyer looked exactly as I remembered it, except that everything looked newly varnished. Almost immediately, a man swooped down upon us. "May I help you?"

"We're here for the tour," Paris said.

The man looked apologetic. "We're not actually giving tours just yet. We only just got the last of the grant money, you know."

"We drove for two hours to get here!" said Paris firmly. "And it's her birthday!"

I nodded feebly, still dumbstruck by my surroundings. "We don't need a tour, if we could just—walk around?"

The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose I could make an exception…but I'll need to accompany you, of course."

My heart dropped. Whatever I had hoped to find could hardly be discovered if this man were watching our every move. But I had no choice. "Of course," I echoed.

"All right," said the man. "Well, this over here is the dining room…"

I didn't listen to a word he said, wandering through the familiar rooms as if in a dream. Every room, every piece of furniture, brought back some memory I had locked away: Edward Rutledge playing the violin, Lawrence and Bligh at my birthday dinner, Cornwallis laughing merrily—and William. Everywhere I looked, I saw my beloved. How could I have left him?

By the time we made it upstairs, I felt like sobbing. As the man guided us into the bedroom William and I had shared in the early days of our marriage, I nearly lost control. The bed had been reupholstered, there were new curtains and the wallpaper was different—but everything else was precisely the same. "How—is this the original furniture?" My voice sounded strange, even to me.

The man looked at me—somewhat suspiciously, I thought. "We believe so. Our best guess is that it dates to the mid 19th-century. The house was set to burn sometime during the War Between the States, but the fire didn't reach the house—only the orchard. Apparently they used to grow pears here."

"Why didn't anyone restore it sooner?" I wanted desperately to leave the room and yet couldn't bear to do so.

"Money, for one thing," said our guide gruffly. "We only got the grant fifteen years ago, and it's come in bits. And ghosts, for another."

"Ghosts?" said Paris, perking up. He'd always had a fascination with the supernatural.

The man nodded. "People reckon this house was haunted. No one lived here for more than a few months until the mid 1950's—everyone's always said there was a soldier roaming the house at midnight, searching for something. Or someone."

Paris looked at me, wide-eyed, but I couldn't respond. Mutely, we followed the man down the hall, bypassing several rooms, until we made it to a room at the very end. My sewing room.

"This room's not finished yet," said the guide, opening the door and stepping through it. I took a deep breath, squeezed my eyes shut, and followed him into the room. This room looked the least familiar to me; all of the furniture had been rearranged, except for a writing desk in the corner. My heart began to pound.

Our guide spoke, cutting into my thoughts. "I'll leave you here," he said reluctantly. "I have paperwork to attend to downstairs. You won't be long?"

"No, we'll be finished soon. Thank you," I said, and Paris echoed my thanks.

The moment I heard the man's footsteps on the stair, I grabbed Paris's hand. "Over here," I whispered, dragging him across the room with me.

"What are you doing?" he whispered back.

"I don't know, I just…" I knelt down onto the dusty floor. "…have a feeling." Without knowing why, I stretched a hand back toward the wall, feeling blindly. A moment later, my fingers felt something small and cold. I grabbed it and pulled my hand back out, letting the object fall into my palm. It gleamed blue and silver in the sunlight that streamed in through the window.

It was the promise ring Paris had given me. The ring I had given William for Christmas—in 1780.

* * *

"But how did it _get_ there?" Paris asked for the thousandth time as we drove home.

"I don't _know_! I gave it to William for Christmas, when we were already at Applebottom!" We'd been over this at least thirty times—first in the room at Peartree, where we'd stayed so long the man had come back upstairs to shoo us out; and then back in the car. I felt a sense of urgency—I wanted to get somewhere, though I knew perfectly well I couldn't do anything until I arrived in London.

As I looked out over the rolling fields, a thought struck me. "What if it was on purpose? What if William left it as a sign?"

"Hmm," said Paris, "it's possible. But how would he know you'd be back?"

"How did I know where it was going to be?" It was a rhetorical question as much as a response to Paris's point. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was some sort of higher power at work, that fate had led me to the ring just as it had led me back in time…

Paris's phone rang on the seat next to me, interrupting my train of thought. "Can you see who it is, Jess?"

I picked up the phone. "It says it's Bill. Wait a sec—_that_ Bill? The one from C.C. Pinckney's house?"

"Just don't answer it," said Paris, tossing his head angrily.

"If you hate this guy, why is he programmed into your phone?" There had to be something Paris wasn't telling me.

He sighed. "I don't hate him, we've just been fighting." He sounded resigned.

"Fighting?" I couldn't tell where this was going.

"Yes, fighting. About you, actually." His eyes were glued to the road.

"About _me_? But he doesn't even know me!"

"He thought we were back together."

"Why would he care if we were back together?" Did this guy have a secret crush on me or something? I couldn't remember ever meeting him before.

"Because I've been seeing him, Jess." Paris's tone was measured, but the way his hands were gripping the steering wheel belied his anxiety.

"You've—you've been _seeing _him?" I was having trouble grasping this. "You mean...you're…?"

"Yes, we've sort of been together for a couple months. It just—_happened_."

"Just happened," I repeated, dumbfounded. I couldn't believe it—Paris, who had once _proposed_ to me...

"He couldn't keep his hands off me, actually. I mean, obviously I am objectively really good looking." Paris looked over at me, smiling faintly, but there was concern in his eyes.

"I'm—I'm happy for you," I said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. "Truly I am. Are you happy?"

"Yes. Well, when I'm not fighting with my boyfriend about you."

"Was this what you were going to tell me? The night I got back from Harvard?" I suddenly remembered his odd reticence that night.

"Yes—but I couldn't do it then, and I've been waiting for the opportune moment ever since." He smiled at me, and this time it was for real.

I grinned back. This would take some getting used to, but I really _was_ happy for him.

It had certainly been an eventful birthday.

* * *

**AN: Surpriiiiise!!!**

**Thank you as ever to all of you who continue to read and review; you all really inspire me. Special congratulations to LazyChestnut for observational skills, and special thanks to ABabblingBrook for being Kat's friend ******

**And thank you to TTT for helping me navigate NoVa. After a fashion. More Tavington to come soon!**


	4. Harder Better Faster Stronger

_February 1781_

It had been more than a month since Cowpens, and Tavington's physical ailments now presented him only a marginal obstacle. True, if he rode for more than an hour or so the dull pain in his abdomen became excruciating, and he still wasn't able to speak with excessive volume; but both of these conditions were vast improvements upon being cooped up on strict bedrest and speaking in a whisper for the better part of a month.

During that time, his sole company had been Lieutenant Lawrence, with very occasional visits from Cornwallis (who rarely left without tears in his eyes at the "untimely loss of Mrs. Tavington") and one from a petrified Captain Schoen (who felt, rightly, that Tavington blamed him partially for the loss of the field at Cowpens). This afforded Tavington plenty of leisure time in which to contemplate precisely how his wife had succeeded in betraying him—and precisely what he would do when he found her and her accomplice.

For she must have had an accomplice: there was simply no way Kat could obtain a horse and a Dragoon's uniform, _and_ track the regiment undetected, without help. Initially, Tavington had directed all of his rage toward Bligh: aside from being a deserter, making him worse than a common traitor, he had obviously aided in Kat's escape. Had the pair been plotting against him the whole time, Tavington wondered? It would have been easy enough…Bligh was always at headquarters, and he and Kat had been close from the beginning…she was certainly capable of taking a lover; she had proved time and again that she was fickle and unworthy of a husband like Tavington…

But after several days of brooding on the objectionable prospect of Bligh luring Kat out of his grasp, Tavington realized abruptly just how ludicrous a notion this was. Bligh, with his gangly frame and awkward manners, was hardly capable of seducing a drunken prostitute, let alone the wife of his superior: he lacked not only the charisma necessary for the act itself, but also the wit required to conceal such an affair.

There was also the fact that, if Kat and Bligh had escaped together, there should have been at least one eyewitness. But Tavington had interviewed each of his Dragoons closely about the day of the battle, and though a number of them remembered seeing Bligh as they rode to Cowpens that morning, and even pledged that they had witnessed him plowing his way through a line of rebels on the battlefield, each one swore he had seen no sign of Kat. Lawrence, too, had vowed to Schoen that he had not seen Kat anywhere near Bligh that morning. Though suspicious, Tavington was forced to accept this testimony: Bligh and Lawrence always rode together, and Lawrence could have no reason to prevaricate now that Bligh had abandoned him and the Dragoons.

Which left—Edward Rutledge. He and Kat had always been suspiciously close friends, and they had always lived in the same house, spending a significant amount of time alone together during the days when all of the gentlemen of any worth were out serving King and country. And, loath though Tavington was to admit it, Rutledge was certainly enough of a dandy to be able to charm a woman, what with his interest in fashion and his aptitude at the violin. Kat and Rutledge had disappeared on different days—but that could simply be a clever ruse, part of their plan to conceal the connection between them. Without question it had worked on Cornwallis, who would never do Kat the disservice of imagining her to be unfaithful to the husband he had obtained for her, and on Lawrence, whose admiration for Rutledge knew no bounds.

It was the sole plausible explanation, and yet Tavington could not shake the suspicion that something about his theory was not quite right. Still, it was the only lead he had, and if he didn't take some proactive motion toward reclaiming his wife, he was certain he should go mad.

As soon as he felt physically able, Tavington resolved to ride to Applebottom and search the house. That was the place in which Kat had determined to end her marriage; there, he reasoned, might be found some clue as to her present location. His quest to locate his wife was quickly becoming obsession. And if he failed to find her…well, _someone_ would pay.

* * *

Toward the end of the month, Tavington felt quite nearly at the peak of health. He could ride for sustained lengths of time, handle any weapon with ease, and—most importantly—rebuke his Dragoons at full volume. His voice did sound a bit hoarser than in days past, but he knew that this only added to his air of impenetrable masculinity.

The only trouble was that Lawrence, formerly the portrait of buffoonery and butt of Tavington's most forceful censure, had morphed into something else entirely. He seemed to have taken the loss of his companions very hard indeed: in most un-Lawrence-like fashion, he generally refused to talk about them at all. In fact, as the weeks passed, he talked less about everything, focusing instead on drilling exercises and weaponry practice. Truthfully, Tavington found himself almost enjoying Lawrence's companionship now that the foppery in him had been diminished. In part, this was because Tavington felt that he and Lawrence were somehow united in purpose at this juncture. Tavington suspected strongly that Lawrence's constant offers to help him seek out information regarding Rutledge's whereabouts were linked to the lieutenant's desire to reinstate his companion into his former place of esteem. Tavington had, of course, no intention whatever of allowing that to happen; but at present Lawrence's fixation with locating Rutledge was quite aligned with Tavington's interests.

For his part, Tavington's pursuit was single-minded. He could think of nothing but Kat and her infamous treatment of him; his fury toward Rutledge, though no less potent, was secondary to his obsessive wrath at his wife. She had sworn to honor and obey him for as long as she lived: having forfeited that oath, her life was also forfeit. Tavington would not stand idly by while she had taken up with another lover—particularly when that lover was _Rutledge_. Worst of all, she had deprived him of the opportunity to divorce her if she failed to produce an heir. Now all hope of an heir was gone, and he would have to divorce her regardless.

Something clicked in Tavington's brain as he considered this…_an heir_…and he realized abruptly that Kat must be, even now, carrying his child. It explained her strange emotiveness on the night before Cowpens, her near-continuous weeping in the preceding weeks—though, now he thought about it, she had always been prone to weeping. But he had had an odd sense, during their last night together, that she had wanted to tell him something. And then she had disappeared—perhaps she had thought he was dead—perhaps she and Rutledge really had been planning their escape—but all of that could be discovered later. For now, the material point was to recover her: he had no intention of allowing a treasonous libertine to raise his stout English heir.

* * *

One morning toward the end of February, Tavington decided that the time was right for action. He strode across the campground, boots thudding dully on the frozen ground, toward the stables. "Lieutenant!" he barked as he entered.

Lawrence, who had been stroking his horse's tail, looking rather morose, snapped to attention and saluted smartly. "Colonel Tavington, sir?"

"Gather a squadron of Dragoons, Lieutenant," said Tavington. "We ride south tomorrow."

"South, sir?" Lawrence looked understandably confused. "Aren't we meant to be—heading north?"

Tavington glared at his lieutenant, but Lawrence didn't take the hint, instead continuing to look at him expectantly. "The Dragoons have business in South Carolina, Lieutenant," he growled, "and I intend to see it carried out." He turned on his heel, intending to leave Lawrence to his horse, but his underling wasn't done with his inane questions just yet.

"Where in South Carolina, Colonel?"

"That is of no import to you," snarled Tavington, not bothering to turn back. "Be sure everything is in order for the morrow. If anything is amiss, you shall accept all responsibility."

He took a step toward the stable doors, then paused, frowning, as a thought struck him. "Lieutenant," he said, turning back to face Lawrence, "where is Bligh?"

He was not sure why he had not yet asked this question of Lawrence, nor was he certain what had made him ask it now. The change in Lawrence's countenance was instant and astonishing: his mouth slackened and his eyes widened, full of fear and—guilt? But just as quickly, he looked away. "I don't know," he mumbled, looking down at the hay-covered floor.

But now that he had begun, Tavington would not give up so easily as that. He took several steps forward, stopping inches from Lawrence. "Lieutenant," he hissed. "You will tell me everything you know about the disappearance of Lieutenant Bligh. Am I understood?"

Lawrence took a step backward and stumbled into his horse, who flicked his face with its tail. "Y-yes," he stammered, looking wildly around him as though something in the stable might provide a respite from Tavington's command.

"That is an order," Tavington growled.

"B-but," Lawrence stammered, recalling the foppish nincompoop of yesteryear rather than the much more obedient soldier he had become in recent weeks, "but I don't _know_ anything."

"Well then," Tavington said, stepping toward him once more and fencing in the unfortunate lieutenant more completely, "you will tell me what you guess. _Now_, Lieutenant."

His underling looked at him and away again very quickly, heaved a great sigh, and said in a high-pitched voice, "I last saw Lieutenant Bligh as we rode into battle together at Cowpens, just after we parted from Mrs. Tavington." Thus relieved of his burden, Lawrence turned away and buried his head in the mane of his horse, who turned to regard Tavington balefully.

But the Colonel was incensed to the point of incoherence. Lawrence had seen his wife—on the morning of the battle—and he had never thought to mention this? "_Lawrence!_" he roared. "Leave off your bloody weeping and tell me _precisely_ what occurred that morning!"

Sniffling, but looking somewhat encouraged that Tavington had not yet inflicted physical damage upon him, Lawrence turned back to his superior. "I came upon Mrs. Tavington when I happened to approach Lieutenant Bligh during a respite as we rode to Cowpens. She was dressed as a Dragoon—now that I think of it, Bligh must have given her my coat, and after he _promised_ he'd take it to the tailor!" Looking pouty, Lawrence extracted a frilly handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. Tavington couldn't help but notice that the initials AH were embroidered onto the corner of the handkerchief; he had less than no interest in Lawrence's lamentable love affairs, particularly now, but sometimes he wondered what his lieutenant got up to.

No matter; now was neither the time nor the place for such queries. "Why did you not alert me immediately that my wife was present, Lieutenant?" His voice was quiet, but all the more threatening for its low tone.

Lawrence appeared properly sensible of the danger he was in. "I—I—Mrs. Tavington made me promise I wouldn't tell anyone! She said you couldn't know she was there!"

Now, there was an intriguing bit of information. As though she believed he wouldn't find out in the end. "And why have you seen fit to withhold this information in the month since that day?" he growled, eyes fixed on the quaking lieutenant.

"I was afraid that you would be angry, sir," Lawrence squeaked, eyeing Tavington with sheer terror around the corner of the handkerchief.

"Oh, I am angry, Lieutenant," Tavington said quietly, barely controlling the rage in his voice. "I am extremely angry. Fortunately for you, however, the majority of that anger is not directed at you. At present," he said, and the relieved smile that had crept across Lawrence's visage vanished. "For the moment, we must take steps to recover my wife—and your friend. And then—" he leaned in closer to Lawrence to ensure that his point was taken— "we shall see."

And he stalked out of the stables, leaving Lawrence quite literally quaking in his boots behind him.

* * *

They left just after dawn the next morning. There was virtually no chatter: these were battle-hardened men, all of whom were inspired to silence by their Colonel's intimidating single-mindedness. Riding hard, stopping only to water their horses and themselves, the squadron reached Applebottom without incident as the sun reached its zenith.

The moment they were within the unmanned gates—Applebottom, now in disputed territory, had been abandoned by both sides of the conflict—Tavington leapt off his horse, shoved the reins at the Dragoon nearest him, and marched into the house. Casting a terrified look at his compatriots, Lawrence followed suit, rushing to accompany the Colonel into his former home.

Even a month's disuse had wrought a distinct change in the house: without its armies of butlers and maids, Applebottom was left dusty and derelict. Lawrence looked around him nervously; there was something quite eerie in visiting the house again when it was so dark and vacant, especially when he thought of what a treat it had looked at Christmastime. "Colonel!" he said in a loud whisper. "Sir, it could be dangerous! Please wait for the squadron to ensure—"

But Tavington merely laughed hollowly, cutting him off. "Ensure what, Lieutenant? I have no intent of being the victim of a surprise rebel assassination. I will carry out my business here. _Unhindered_," he added, glaring meaningfully at Lawrence, who gulped and nodded, tiptoeing silently behind the Colonel as he mounted the stairs.

Tavington, focused on his mission to discover his adulterous wife, was utterly unprepared for the visceral reaction he experienced as he turned the handle and stepped through the doorway of the bedroom he had shared with Kat. Memories of their last night together rushed unbidden into his consciousness, serving only to increase his bitter hatred. With a snarl, he crossed the room to search through her dressing table, her wardrobe, looking for some small clue that would indicate her whereabouts. He left papers and garments scattered on the floor, upturning the vanity in his rage when he found the comb he had given her for her birthday. But still he found no sign of a conspiracy, no telltale letters between her and Rutledge or even Bligh. As he searched through her bedside table, something akin to disappointment seized him. How was he ever to have his revenge if he could find no clue?

Just when he was about to declare the search a failure (and punish Lawrence severely for withholding valuable information), Tavington was seized by a sudden suspicion. "Lawrence!"

A frightened squeak revealed that, as he had supposed, the interfering lieutenant had followed him upstairs. Lawrence edged into the room, clearly petrified. "Sir?"

"Come here, Lieutenant," said Tavington, a dangerous note in his voice. Lawrence complied, looking more terrified still, and came to a halt some feet away from Tavington. "On the floor," he growled. Lawrence complied, grimacing at the dust that covered the floorboards. "What do you see, Lieutenant?"

"Er…your boots, sir?" Lawrence offered, peering intently at those articles.

Tavington rolled his eyes. "Lieutenant, I do not need your less than formidable powers of observation to inform me that I am wearing boots. Look under the _bed_, Lawrence. Do you see anything?"

Lawrence turned his head toward the bed and lifted the skirt gingerly. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "There's something here! A—a book, I think!" He sneezed loudly.

"Well, fetch it out, Lieutenant." Tavington felt quite pleased with himself, both for having discovered something Kat had clearly been trying to hide from him—and for getting Lawrence's uniform dirty in the process.

Lawrence sneezed again and obediently pulled out an enormous tome from under the bed. He rubbed the dust off its cover with the edge of his sleeve, wrinkling his nose as he did so, and peered at it. "_Fruits and Flowers of South Carolina_!" he said, obviously excited. "But—that was one of Edward's favorites!"

Tavington wordlessly held a hand out, and Lawrence scrambled up to hand him the hardback, albeit somewhat reluctantly. It was awkwardly large, and Tavington set it on the bed to rifle through its pages. Surely there must be _something_, some evidence—and then he found it. A piece of parchment that filled Tavington with a loathing so intense it startled him. "_In Congress, July 4, 1776. The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America_."

"_Jefferson_," he spat. _How_ had he not seen it before? He rolled up the piece of parchment and pushed past Lawrence.

"Sir?" said Lawrence hesitantly. "Are you—are you going to take the book, too, sir?"

"You may read about fruits in South Carolina to your heart's content, Lieutenant, if it will inspire you to remain silent," growled Tavington, but with less venom than usual, causing Lawrence to look rather as though Michaelmas had come early.

Tavington, meanwhile, was deep in thought. If his wife were in league with Rutledge _and_ Jefferson, there was much to be done. "Lawrence! Cease your daydreaming!" he barked. Lawrence lowered the book, abashed. "Dismiss the squadron, Lieutenant."

"Sir?" said Lawrence, looking fearful once more.

"You and I shall undertake the next leg of our journey alone," Tavington said, glaring at Lawrence with distaste. He would much rather travel by himself, but there was nothing for it: though he would never admit it to the yob, he needed backup, and he trusted Lawrence.

"Alone, sir?" Lawrence's voice quavered.

"A squadron is much more likely to be noticed travelling through rebel-controlled lands, Lieutenant. We ride in an hour. Ready your horse." Lawrence scurried away, casting one last alarmed glance over his shoulder at Tavington, but the Colonel was already lost in thought.

* * *

Much to Lawrence's chagrin, he and Tavington were obliged to spend the night under a convenient tree. The ground was hard, the night cold, and all in all, Lawrence rather felt that he wouldn't be able to walk the next day, much less ride. But he had no choice: injury or no, the Colonel was clearly not planning to rest properly until he discovered whatever he was looking for. As they continued their south-easterly ride the next day, the terrain began to look somewhat familiar to Lawrence, and not long after noon, the wooded path along which they had been quietly picking their way gave way to—

"_Peartree_," breathed Lawrence reverently.

Tavington glared at his lieutenant. "This is no time for reminiscing, Lieutenant. Kindly remember that we are on a mission."

"Sir," Lawrence replied obediently, still gazing fondly at the orchard for which the plantation had been named.

They dismounted, leaving their horses tethered to adjacent trees in the orchard, and set off around the house. As they reached the veranda, however, it became clear that Peartree was not quite as unoccupied as Applebottom had been: lively chatter came from the parlor, one of whose windows was open.

Tavington swore quietly and ducked behind a mulberry bush. He had wished to avoid a confrontation, but there was nothing for it: he would not leave without the information he needed. He cast a glance at Lawrence, crouching beside him; the lieutenant's eyes were wide. "How many men do you estimate to be in the parlor?" he asked quietly.

Lawrence listened for a moment. "I'd imagine three, sir."

That had been Tavington's estimate as well. He thought for a moment. "Do you feel prepared to handle them, Lieutenant? Even if it comes to blows?"

"Certainly, sir!" said Lawrence eagerly. "I've been practicing with both hands since my arm was wounded, you know, and I reckon I'm quite able to take two men at a time!"

Tavington seriously doubted this, but in situations such as these, sometimes enthusiasm was enough to compensate for mean skill. "I shall help you to subdue them initially, but you are responsible for detaining them while I search the house. I trust you are capable?" He leveled a stern glance at Lawrence, who nodded excitedly.

Tavington sighed. This was hardly the way he had planned for his expedition at Peartree to go, but he was out of options. He stole onto the veranda, Lawrence at his heels, and burst through the front door.

He and Lawrence were in the parlor, pistols in hand and pointed at their captives, before the three men had even registered that there were intruders in the house. All three were large, burly, and obviously drunk. "Who're you?" sneered one, clearly not much concerned with the weapon trained at his forehead.

"That is none of your concern at the moment," said Tavington smoothly, "provided you stay where you are. When you cease to do that, I shall make it your concern." He lowered his voice threateningly, but it seemed to have little effect on the prisoners. One of them took another swig from his flask and belched. Disgusted, Tavington turned to Lawrence. "I doubt that you shall have any problem, Lieutenant, provided you maintain the upper hand."

"I will, sir!" said Lawrence earnestly.

As Tavington exited the room and shut the door behind him, Lawrence was advancing on the men where they sat grouped in the corner. He did hope the lieutenant would have enough sense not to get himself injured, but that was hardly his most pressing problem. Now—where to look? He knew Edward Rutledge had kept a small study somewhere on the main floor; that seemed as good a place to start as any, if he could only find it. But he did not have to look for long: a plain door off the main hall proved to be locked, and Tavington had to perform some tricky maneuvers with his penknife to induce it to open.

When the door finally gave, he knew he'd found the place that any evidence of a conspiracy would be. He crossed the room in one step and stood in front of the desk, considering it. It was dusty, unsurprisingly, but otherwise extremely neat. Not a single paper littered its pristine cherry surface, and when Tavington tried the drawer, it too was locked. This lock was harder to spring than the one on the door, and it took him several minutes. The drawer sprang open at last to reveal a sheaf of papers, most of which appeared to be correspondence. He rifled through them; there were none in his wife's distinct hand. There was some business correspondence, but most of the letters were of a personal nature. They came from a variety of familiar names, each of which sent a thrill of rage throughout Tavington's person: Benjamin Franklin, John Dickinson, Lyman Hall. More than a few that were quite personal indeed bore the puzzling signature "AH," but Tavington could only focus on one thing: the vast majority of the letters were from Thomas Jefferson, sent from a place called Monticello, in Virginia. And then Tavington recalled that Kat had once said that she had relatives in Virginia…

He had gotten what he came for; he had ascertained that Rutledge and Jefferson were in league together, and circumstantial evidence implicated his wife as well. But still Tavington was not satisfied. He stormed out of the small study and up the staircase, noting as he did so that the parlor where he had left Lawrence and the prisoners was eerily quiet. When he reached the top of the staircase, though, all thought of Lawrence's questionable tactics was lost, and all he could think of was Kat. What had prompted her to betray him so thoroughly? How had _she_ been the one to abandon _him_, when the advantage in the marriage was entirely on her side?

Furious, he upturned half the furniture in the bedroom they had shared, but there was no clue there. Nor had he truly expected there to be—anything she had left behind would have been at Applebottom. He was nearly back to the stairs when a thought struck him: perhaps the little sewing room at the end of the hall would yield whatever hint he sought? Certainly she had spent a good deal of time there. But after he had looked in every drawer, under every cushion, and found no piece of correspondence outlining her planned betrayal, he was forced to admit defeat. He pulled a small object from his breast pocket and stared at it: a ring, round and silver, its blue stone glowing as with an inner fire in the pale winter sunlight. He cursed, his mouth twisting down at the corner, and threw the trinket violently across the room, ridding himself of the last physical reminder of her. The ring flew under a writing desk, lodging itself in a corner, but Tavington was back in the hall before it had even stopped moving.

As he made his way back down the stairs, seething with rage, Tavington remembered abruptly that Kat had once mentioned relatives in Virginia. It had been only a fleeting reference, but she had said it, he was sure. And that was the connection he had been seeking: Virginia, home of Thomas Jefferson.

When he reached the parlor, he was in a fouler temper than he had been when they arrived at Peartree, if such a thing were possible. The sight that met his eyes as he opened the door did nothing to help matters: all three of the prisoners were bare-chested and blindfolded, gagged and roped to their chairs with the material from what, Tavington supposed, had formerly been their shirts. "_Lawrence_," growled Tavington, "_what the devil are you doing?_"

Lawrence, who had been idly stroking the blade of his sword and looking quite pleased with himself, leapt to attention. "I—I subdued them, sir," he said sheepishly.

"Your orders were to ensure that there was no trouble, Lieutenant. Was it _entirely_ necessary to strip these men?"

"I—they—they were threatening me, sir!" stammered Lawrence, casting a nervous glance at the prisoners. "They came at me as you left the room, and it took a bit of fancy work on my part to maintain the upper hand!"

Now that Tavington looked at Lawrence properly, he realized that the lieutenant's uniform was in some degree of disarray. Perhaps there was truth in what he said, and the fop _had_ managed to keep the prisoners in check… "All right, Lieutenant," he said with a sigh. He turned on his heel and headed back toward the door.

"Are—are we going, then, sir?"

Tavington turned back incredulously. "Yes, Lawrence, we are. Did you imagine that we were taking a hiatus from soldiering?"

"Well—no, sir, but—" Lawrence looked extremely uncomfortable. "What—what will become of the prisoners, sir?"

"We shall leave them here, Lieutenant. Either they shall starve to death or they shall manage to escape." Tavington couldn't understand why Lawrence was so concerned.

"All—all right, sir," said the lieutenant heavily. One of the prisoners made a weak moaning noise, and Lawrence looked back at him almost longingly.

Tavington rolled his eyes and strode out of the room, leaving Lawrence to scramble after him so as not to be left behind.

* * *

**AN: I've been doing my best to post weekly, but I am not at all sure that will continue past this week. Your reviews help me write, though, and I'll do my best to keep up my end of the bargain.**

**Thank you as ever to all of you, and to TTT for some damn good cucumber sandwiches.**


	5. How Come Every Time You Come Around

_September 2009_

"Are you _sure_ about this?" Paris's eyes were wide with concern as he looked over at me.

"_Yes_," I said firmly. "You know I have to. You've said it yourself a million times. I _have_ to go back."

"I know, I just…" His voice trailed off as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I'm worried, Jess. So many things don't add up."

I reached for the ring that now hung from a chain around my neck, playing with it idly. "I know. But this is what I'm supposed to do. I can just—tell."

Paris nodded, eyebrows drawing together. He looked almost like he might cry—and I knew if he started now, there was no hope for me. "Come on," I said, and climbed out of the car before I could think more about it.

It was sweltering, even though it was late September. As Paris rounded the car to help me get my bags out of the trunk, he groaned. "Heat."

"No kidding," I agreed, hoisting a suitcase out onto the pavement of the parking lot and nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process. "Good grief. How am I possibly going to get all of this to my dorm?"

"Take a cab," suggested Paris, pulling the last bag out and slamming the trunk. He surveyed my bags. "You do have a lot of stuff."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks, Captain Obvious. You gonna help me?" I grabbed a suitcase and another bag at random and began lugging them in the general direction of the airport entrance, Paris at my heels.

Honestly, I couldn't believe how fast the summer had passed. It felt like just a few days ago that we had found Peartree—and the ring. Countless theories later, I was no closer to figuring out how on earth the ring could have ended up there. And now I was leaving for London…I could almost feel the tug of fate pulling at me, but truthfully, I wasn't sure I was ready to leave everything again. Saying goodbye to my parents had been awful, and I suspected they were actually relieved that they didn't have to take me to the airport and have the scene take place there.

But as Paris and I entered the airport, I began to remember why I'd made this decision to begin with. I had always wanted to study in London, and—there was nothing to say I wouldn't be back here again someday with the people I loved. In fact, I was positive I would see Paris and my parents again; I just had no idea when. And in the meantime, London lay before me—as did, I was sure, a way back to William.

"Jess." Paris was staring at me. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I said. "British Airways. Over here."

Paris followed me obediently as I struggled first with the automated check-in machine, then with an airline employee, and finally with my bags as I saw them off to be checked. By the time I was ready to go through security, I wasn't especially pleased. "One hundred _dollars_ to check my damn bag," I grumbled.

"You'll get over it," said Paris calmly as we sauntered toward the security checkpoint.

I had bigger things to worry about, and I knew it. Like saying goodbye to Paris, who had been my lifeline for this whole crazy summer. I turned to face him, unable to keep the tears from my eyes. "Paris," I said, my voice choked.

He said nothing, simply folded me up in his arms. I clung to him, wishing I didn't have to let go. But it was Paris who pulled away first. "You'd better go," he said, surreptitiously brushing a tear from the corner of his eye. "You don't want to miss your flight."

"No," I agreed, sniffling. "But I don't want to leave."

"Yes, you do," he said. He reached out toward the ring where it hung around my neck and touched it lightly. "Just don't forget."

I could only shake my head as he turned away from me and began to walk toward the door, back out into the blinding Charleston sunset. I wanted to call him back, to tell him I had changed my mind—but instead, I swallowed hard, blinked a few times, and turned to face my future.

* * *

The flight to London was ridiculously long, and no number of jocular messages delivered from the pilot's cabin in a soothing English accent could quite console me. Not only was I feeling miserable about leaving my loved ones behind, but it had just dawned on me that I didn't really know anyone in London. I hadn't been concerned about this before; I had always made friends easily, and with everything else I had to think about, it truly hadn't occurred to me that I might be lonely. But now it seemed that I would have no one to talk to until classes started, and I wasn't honestly sure when that would be. And I had just realized how very much I hated red-eye flights.

By the time I'd gotten off the plane, convinced the customs officer that I really was a student, and found my luggage, the longing for an actual bed had overtaken my emotion at leaving home. I pulled the information I'd gotten from Harvard out of my purse and scanned it. King's College London…Strand Campus…Great Dover Street Apartments. I loved my dorm already, based solely on its name, and I couldn't wait to see it. I decided just to take a cab—I'd have plenty of opportunity to take the Tube, and for today, I wanted to experience the quintessential London cab, particularly given the amount of luggage I had.

This turned out to be an excellent decision: by the time I made it outside with all of my bags, I was sweating profusely, and I'd barely dragged them a hundred yards. Plus, it was raining. Fortunately, there wasn't a line at the taxi stand, and I was approached by a driver in short order. "Where to, Miss?" he said, looking somewhat skeptically at my mountain of luggage.

"Um," I said, fumbling in my purse for the simplified map the university had provided me with and handing it to him. "I don't really know. Maybe you'd better just look at this."

He looked at me suspiciously, glanced at the map, and handed it back to me. "Southwark, then."

It took me a minute to figure out what he'd said, because although that was what the map said, I'd been pronouncing it as it was spelled, and the driver had just said something more like "suth-uk." Hmm. Maybe this was going to be more of a culture shock than I had anticipated.

An hour, a harrowing cab ride, and £70 later (seventy _pounds_ for a cab ride! I still couldn't believe it), I found myself staring up at a nondescript brick monstrosity that looked not even remotely like the neoclassical façade I had been picturing. As the cab pulled away, I found myself wishing I had asked the driver to help me carry my stuff at least into the lobby—how was I possibly going to get all of my bags up even half a dozen stairs? Sighing loudly, I grabbed a suitcase and began to haul it up the steps.

It took me the better part of an hour to get all of my suitcases into the lobby; get my key; figure out that my flat was all the way at the other end of the inner courtyard; lug my bags one by one across said courtyard; get everything into the building; fit myself and all of my stuff onto the elevator; and shove everything through the two fire doors to get into my flat. But there, at long last, was my room! As I turned the key in the lock, I felt a thrill of excitement—what could be more perfect than my own room in a flat in London, however dreary my surroundings?

I realized very quickly when I threw open the door that my room would not be quite the palatial chamber I'd envisioned. "Cozy" was the most favorable adjective I could think of—and even that didn't quite work, as the window was open, and the room had imbibed the chilly London rain. But I was determined to love my new home, despite the mustard-yellow walls and the tiny closet. And I couldn't wait to meet my neighbors!

Once I'd maneuvered all of my luggage into the room and shut the door behind me, there was almost no room to stand—but I was exhausted almost to the point of collapse. I squeezed around a suitcase and vaulted over a duffel bag to land on the bed. It wasn't terribly comfortable, but I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

* * *

When I awoke, it was dark out, and—I peeked out the window—yup, still raining. My stomach grumbled violently, and I looked down at my watch: definitely dinnertime in London, and I hadn't eaten since the plane. I sighed, surveying the luggage-covered floor of my room. I had ignored my mother's supplications to bring food along with me, figuring that clothes were much more important. I was regretting the decision now, but there was nothing for it—I had to eat sometime.

I stood up, stretched, and hopped over a suitcase toward the miniscule bathroom so that I could at least freshen up a bit. I had only peeked into my bathroom on my way in, and my only thought at that point had been relief that I didn't have to share with anyone. But now that I looked at it more closely, I realized how tiny it actually was. Rather than a shower stall, the shower head simply extended out of the wall, and though there was a shower curtain, it included both the toilet and the shower space. What exactly had I gotten myself into?

Still, I felt better once I'd washed my face and changed my clothes. As I headed outside, armed with my umbrella, I was ready at last to experience London. A bit of rain wouldn't hurt me, and I wasn't afraid of exploring alone. As I trudged through the courtyard back to the lobby, I started to remember why I'd been so excited about London in the first place. Even before it seemed a logical stop on my quest to return to William, I had always wanted to go to England, and London in particular had always been a sort of fairy tale for me, full of history and tea parties and sophisticated accents. And the rain seemed somehow to make it all much more charming.

Or at least, that's what I thought until my umbrella turned inside out half a block from my dorm and I was left to traipse along in the downpour. I'd bypassed the pub directly across the street from the dorm, figuring that I would have plenty of chances to go there, and headed north on Great Dover Street toward where I thought the Underground station was. Sure enough, I reached Borough a few minutes later—but there were no restaurants, at least not on this street. Determined not to give up on my mission, I rounded the corner and was rewarded with the sight of a building sporting a sign that proclaimed it "The Trinity." I crossed the street and headed toward the restaurant gratefully.

The inside of the Trinity was dimly lit, but cozy, and in short order I was happily seated at a window table, munching on a sandwich as I observed my surroundings. There were a handful of people eating alone in addition to the couples and groups that populated the restaurant, and as I took a sip of my pinot grigio, I wondered idly what brought any of them here tonight. It was something I'd been considering a lot lately, especially since I'd found the ring at Peartree: was it fate that I had been so drawn to look under the writing desk? Was it fate that brought all of these disparate people together in this particular restaurant this evening? Or was it all just coincidence?

I lingered for a while after I'd paid my bill, sipping my wine and gazing out into the rain. There was a bus stop on the other side of the street, and as I watched, a solitary figure loped up the street toward it, ducking into the bus shelter. It was a man, tall, lanky, and dark-haired, and he reminded me of someone. I stared at him; it seemed somehow vital that I figure out who he made me think of. After a moment, the C10 bus made its way up the street toward the bus stop, and I watched the man board it and settle into a seat on the side closer to me. As the bus pulled away, the man glanced out the window, and I had a glimpse of his face, illuminated by the lights within the bus.

I shook my head, confused, and stood up to pull my coat on. There was no way that could have been who I'd thought—no, _wanted_ it to be, I thought as I headed back into the rain. There was no way that Bligh was here. It was wishful thinking.

* * *

It may have been wishful thinking; but if it was, my subconscious was incredibly persistent. Over the course of the next few weeks, I had spotted "Bligh" wandering around King's Cross Station; leaving the London Eye as I boarded; and walking down the Strand as I sat in Starbucks. Each time, I'd made an effort to follow him to see if it really _was_ Bligh, and each time he had vanished before I could catch up with him.

Fortunately, I had more to think about than just Bligh. Classes had started, and I had no intent of being caught unprepared at exam time. Consequently, I was knee-deep in reading to stay informed for lecture each week. Even with classes and studying, though, I had entirely more free time than I was used to during school—there was something to be said for this one-class-a-week system! And I took advantage of my time off, exploring the city to the fullest. I visited every major museum in the city, looking for some clue that would tell me what I needed to know: how to get back to William. But, although I spent copious amounts of time in both the King's College library and the British Library, I still couldn't bring myself to look up information that might mention him directly. If he truly did survive Cowpens—if he had accomplished enough to be included in the _Who's Who_—it would be all too easy to find him in other books, and I wasn't ready for that.

But this determination left me in something of a quandary: needing information, but unwilling to look it up directly, I was forced to do rather circumspect research. And that meant museums. The Victoria & Albert yielded some very familiar weaponry, but nothing directly useful to my quest; and, while I enjoyed the portrait of Cornwallis in the Tate, that wasn't precisely helpful either. I found myself getting increasingly frustrated as time went on. I felt like I was waiting for something, some _sign_, but I didn't know what it could be.

Frustration aside, I was thoroughly enjoying my time spent exploring London. The one thing I was lacking in was friends; I spent far more time on the phone with Paris than I should have. "Go make some friends on your side of the Atlantic, Jess!" he said whenever I called him, and though he said it jokingly, I knew he was worried about me. But I couldn't help it—my flatmates, a gaggle of shrieking first-years and a couple mysterious grad students who appeared in the kitchen at odd hours to make curry, refused to respond to my friendly gestures. My contact with them was limited mostly to awkward chats during midnight fire drills and to the yelling I could hear when the girls next to me stumbled home drunk at 3 am.

Which left me seeking friends in my classes—a largely unsuccessful venture, as there wasn't much time to talk during lecture. One day toward the beginning of November, however, when I arrived for one of my larger lectures—Britons in America in the Post-Colonial Era—I saw a sign on the door informing me that the class had been moved for the day. This was no laughing matter: the building was not easily navigable, and I had been late to all of my first classes because I hadn't been able to find them. Swearing under my breath, I whirled around and stomped back toward the entrance to the building, figuring that I'd have a better chance of finding my way if I started over.

Ten minutes later, though, I was back where I had started, and I was getting panicked. "_Damn_," I said, not troubling to keep my voice down as I turned around again—and ran into someone. "Oh!" I gasped. "I'm sorry!"

"That's all right," replied the guy I'd hit, calmly retrieving his notebook from where it lay on the floor. "Are _you_ all right, though?"

"Um…not really," I said, trying to look less annoyed than I felt. "My class got moved, and I can't find the new room. Do you know where 5E is?"

"That one's bloody hard to find the first time," said my new friend, nodding solemnly at me. "I'll walk you there."

"Thanks!" I smiled at him and extended a hand. "I'm Jess."

"Oleg," he said, shaking my hand firmly as we began to walk. "Where are you from, Jess?"

"South Carolina, but I go to Harvard University. What about you?"

"Near Alton Towers," he said as we began to climb a staircase.

"Oh," I said, confused. "I've never been."

"It's rubbish," he said. "What do you study?"

"American history." As we headed down a long, narrow corridor, I felt extremely grateful for my guide. "You?"

"War Studies," he said. I nodded dumbly—was there a really program here that taught you about wars? Should I try to take those classes? "Well…" he said, his voice trailing off as we stopped walking.

I looked up and saw "5E" emblazoned next to the door in front of me. "Oh! Thanks, Oleg!" I smiled warmly at him.

He bowed his head, smiling back. "You're quite welcome." He turned to leave, but I had an idea.

"Hey, do you—want to have lunch tomorrow, or something?" I wasn't about to pass up my one opportunity to make a friend.

"Um…sure," he said, looking slightly confused.

"Great! Meet me in the cafeteria at one?"

"One it is." He grinned at me. "Have a good class."

I watched him walk down the hallway for a moment before I entered the elusive classroom. It really would be nice to have a friend here at last.

* * *

Before long, Oleg and I were fast friends, and I hung out constantly with him and his flatmates (who for some reason were much friendlier than mine). They were very different from my friends at Harvard, but they were all really nice, and it was much more fun to explore London with British people who knew all the good spots.

But life wasn't all fun—I was still searching for some clue that would allow me to get back to William without learning explicitly what had happened to him after the war. I knew on some that I was being ridiculous, that I could use every hint I could get to find him again; but I couldn't help but think that I might have an impact on history, and I didn't want to be some sort of eerie prophetess when I finally found him again.

One rainy Thursday afternoon, I found myself with nothing to do: my section had been cancelled, and Oleg had class. Normally, I might have done some reading in my flat, but since I was already out and about, I decided to make a day of it. I headed out of the King's building and down the Strand toward Trafalgar Square, running through potential activities in my head and trying to dodge everyone's umbrellas. Thoroughly wet and still not sure what I should do with my free afternoon, I ducked into Starbucks—the same one from which I'd thought I had seen Bligh some weeks ago—to warm up a bit and formulate a plan.

I settled down with my coffee at the window and gazed out into the street. People flooded the sidewalks, and the street was filled with the omnipresent black taxis and red buses that now seemed somehow comforting to me. For all of its gloominess, I had grown to love London…I really wouldn't mind living here for a longer period of time. My mind wandered—would William consider living in London, I wondered? It would be so wonderful to experience the city in two centuries, to see what had changed and what remained…

I finished my coffee and stood up to shrug my coat back on. I was now in the mood for some history. I hadn't managed to make it to the National Portrait Gallery yet (in part because I was afraid of who I might see staring back at me from a canvas), but today seemed the perfect day for it. I braced myself and walked back out into the rain.

The Gallery was pleasantly uncrowded, the rooms beautiful, the portraits fascinating, and I vowed that I would come back again at least once before I left London. I was thoroughly enjoying myself as I headed into the last set of rooms—and found myself directly in front of an enormous portrait of William.

My heart instantly began to pound, my knees shook, and tears filled my eyes as I gazed at the painting. It was a lovely work, masterfully done, and he looked so—powerful. I took it in hungrily, wanting to memorize the portrait: William's proud expression, the way he held himself were so familiar to me and yet so painful to see. At last I could no longer stand to look at it, and I resolutely turned to leave. But I couldn't leave without some reminder of the portrait, agonizing though it was to look at; so I waited until the room had mostly cleared of people before pulling my camera out of my purse and surreptitiously sneaking a photo of the portrait from across the room.

I nearly ran out of the Gallery, wanting suddenly to create space between me and the painful reminder of what I had left behind and exactly how far apart we now were. When I made it out into Trafalgar Square, still breathing heavily, I found that the rainstorm had abated. Which was fortunate, as I suddenly felt as though I might collapse if I didn't sit down soon. I made it to a bench in the square and collapsed onto it, squeezing my eyes shut as if to shut out my memories.

After a moment, I took a deep breath and pulled out my camera to look at the portrait again. This time, I zoomed in to examine the details: his riding boots (which looked brand new), the familiar green coat, the horse in the background. Sighing, I zoomed out to look at the photo as a whole—and instantly zoomed back in, but not to study the painting. Instead, it was to scrutinize a solitary figure standing next to the portrait that I hadn't even noticed when I was in the room. Tall, dressed in jeans and a button-down dress shirt, the man's face was turned partly toward the camera, exposing sideburns and a prominent nose. My heart skipped a beat.

Lieutenant Bligh was in London.

* * *

**AN: My apologies for the unintended hiatus, and thanks to all of you for your continued reviews and support!! You're fantastic :-)**

**The portrait of Tavington that Kat finds is based on the wonderful portrait of Banastre Tarleton by Sir Joshua Reynolds that hangs in the National Portrait Gallery, London. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.**

**Finally, thanks to TTT for her dedication, and for discovering said portrait (about a million years ago, now)…**


	6. I'll Come Back TriumphantLee

_March 1781_

"It's this demmed Lee fellow again," grumbled General Cornwallis, shaking his head in annoyance so that his wig nearly fell off. He righted it, looking more annoyed than ever. "We _must_ be rid of him, Tavington."

Colonel Tavington nodded absently, still gazing out the window of Cornwallis's study. "Indeed, Milord."

Cornwallis frowned at Tavington. "Well, Colonel?"

Tavington blinked, coming out of his reverie. "I will do what I can, Milord."

"That's hardly assuring," growled the General. "Have you got a plan, Tavington, or were you just going to throttle the man with your bare hands?"

Tavington swallowed hard, forcibly biting back the snide reply that was on the tip of his tongue. "I shall of course proceed however your Lordship thinks best."

Cornwallis stood up abruptly and rounded his desk, coming to a halt in front of Tavington and glaring intently into the Colonel's eyes. Tavington did his best to keep his face expressionless, and after a moment, the General's face softened. He sighed and patted Tavington on the shoulder. "I understand that you are still grieving, my dear fellow. But we cannot allow our emotions to get in the way of our profession. Such is the life of a soldier."

He sighed again and retreated behind the desk once more, leaving Tavington to pretend to be moved by his superior's speech. After a moment, Cornwallis spoke again. "Do we understand each other, Colonel?"

"Milord," said Tavington, who doubted very much that the General would ever understand him.

"Good," said Cornwallis, standing up and ringing the bell for tea. The study door opened immediately, and the liveried servant rushed in with the tea cart. "I want that man caught," said the General, gesturing to the servant to pour tea for himself and Tavington.

"Which man is that, Milord?" came an excited voice, as Lieutenant Lawrence bounded in through the open door.

"Lieutenant Lawrence!" roared Cornwallis. "Lovely to see you!"

"Lee," growled Tavington as he settled into a chair, distinctly displeased at the degree of enthusiasm with which his superior greeted the nincompoop of a lieutenant.

"Do sit down and join us for tea, Lieutenant," said Cornwallis politely, indicating the seat next to Tavington.

"Why, thank you!" said Lawrence, settling into the indicated chair and nodding affably at the General. "You were speaking about Colonel Lee, then?"

"Quite," agreed the General, sipping his tea. "He must be neutralized. He is wreaking havoc on my troops."

"I do wonder, though, why he's called 'Lighthorse,'" said Lawrence thoughtfully. "Do you suppose he rides a white horse? Like Daniel, perhaps?"

Tavington could stand the tea party no longer. He slammed his tea cup down and stood up quickly, nearly upsetting the cart. "I beg your pardon, Milord," he said, and stalked out of the room.

Cornwallis watched him go with a degree of concern. "Lieutenant," he said quietly, "I want you to keep an eye on the Colonel."

Lawrence looked apprehensive. "Keep—an eye on him, Milord?"

"Mm." Cornwallis nodded. "Perhaps both eyes. A man on the edge as he is can do great harm to himself—and to all with whom he comes in contact."

Lawrence looked petrified for a moment, then relaxed. "I will do what I can, Milord. And I will certainly assist in catching Lee!"

"I have no doubt that you will be a most enthusiastic participant in the project," agreed Cornwallis magnanimously.

"But I _do_ still wonder about his moniker," said Lawrence. "Perhaps he writes horse poetry?"

* * *

Tavington stomped up the front staircase and down the hall, into the small bedchamber Cornwallis had allotted him. Slamming the door behind him, he threw himself into the chair at his desk and poured himself a glass of whisky from the decanter there. He took a sip, letting the alcohol burn its way down his throat, then sighed and buried his face in his hands.

He couldn't understand _why_ he was still so affected by Kat's absence. Well, aside from the completely justifiable rage and lust for revenge he felt at her abandonment. The trouble was that most people—or Cornwallis, at least, whose opinion unfortunately mattered a great deal in Tavington's world—believed her to be dead, making his rage and implacability socially unjustifiable.

Perhaps that was whence this inner conflict stemmed: some part of Tavington's makeup required an outlet for his anger, and yet he was not permitted by circumstance to let it out. In any case, he knew quite well that Cornwallis's sympathy would not hold forever, particularly if the General picked up any hints that Tavington's—emotional state—was due to anything other than grief; and he could not afford to lose his superior's support.

Meanwhile, however, Tavington remained relentless in his pursuit of every person connected to Kat's disappearance: namely, Bligh, Rutledge, and Jefferson. He knew that it would take time to exact his vengeance on all the involved parties, but he was willing to wait—though he would have to find some way to keep his wrath in check in the meantime.

Feeling somewhat calmer, Tavington finished his drink and stood up, glass still in hand. Unbidden, a vision of Kat in conversation with Rutledge at Christmas appeared in his vision. An ugly look stole over his face, and he slammed the glass down on the desk so hard that it shattered. He looked down at his bleeding hand and stared blankly for a moment before seizing a bit of cloth and tying a makeshift bandage around it.

This accomplished, Tavington strode across the room to splash his face with water from the jug in the corner, trying to enforce what he had just determined: that he would have to keep his temper under control. Truthfully, he didn't know quite how to stop himself from these occasional displays; he felt frustrated, obviously, but also—well, bored. These past two months had been spent primarily recovering, both personally and militarily, and Tavington couldn't help but feel that, now that he was fully fit, it was time to move.

And yet Cornwallis seemed as firmly encamped at Hillsborough as he had been at Peartree, with no plans to move at any point in the foreseeable future, while the army was spoiling for a fight. Tavington longed simply to rally the Dragoons and neutralize this Lee character before he did further damage to His Majesty's troops—but he knew Cornwallis would never agree to this, particularly now, when Tavington was deemed "unstable."

As Tavington put on a clean shirt in preparation for dinner, he could not recall ever having felt so—restless.

Or vengeful.

* * *

Fortunately for all parties, Tavington did not have long to wait before an opportunity came for action. Not, granted, the sort he would most have welcomed—namely, an occasion to hunt down those who had wronged him, sanctioned by Cornwallis—but still, action. As he strode into the General's study on a Wednesday morning, he found his superior all in a tizzy.

"Tavington!" barked Cornwallis, slamming a fist down on the desk, upturning the inkwell and splattering ink all over his papers.

The bevy of captains clustered around the desk scattered, looking frightened, and Tavington approached cautiously. "Milord?"

"Ready your Dragoons, Tavington! We march—soon!" Cornwallis swept a hand across his brow, clearly agitated.

"Where to, Milord?" Tavington sincerely hoped that that bloody Harry Lee would be involved—he would take great pleasure in personally seeing to the traitor's demise.

"Oh, I don't know! West, I suppose. My scouts inform me that General Greene is moving toward—Guilford Court House." Cornwallis scowled down at the map in front of him, now almost illegible because of the ink stains.

Tavington nodded, making mental note of the map.

"Greene is as dangerous as Washington! I never feel secure when encamped in his neighborhood!" Cornwallis grumbled, then sighed. "Will you be ready, Tavington? By dawn, I should think."

"Of course, Milord," said Tavington smoothly, attempting to mask his eagerness at the idea of battle. He turned to leave, intending to head to camp.

"Colonel!" boomed Cornwallis, stopping Tavington in his tracks. "I want none of your reckless tactics on the morrow. Tomfoolery will not defeat Lee!"

Tavington merely nodded before continuing on his way. _Tomfoolery_ was hardly something he engaged in. And recklessness—well, recklessness had never yet served him poorly. Recklessness won battles, though Cornwallis was hardly in a position to condone it. And Tavington intended to win this battle.

* * *

"Lawrence! What the _devil_ do you mean by that ribbon?"

The lieutenant snapped to attention, leaping back from his horse guiltily and moving his left hand behind his back. "N-nothing, sir."

Tavington stepped closer, a menacing look on his face. "We are meant to be riding into _battle_, Lieutenant, not some bloody horse show!"

"I'll—I'll take it out, then, shall I?" Lawrence fingered the red ribbon he had braided into his horse's tail.

"Yes, Lieutenant, you _shall_," growled Tavington. "And what have you got behind your back?"

Lawrence shifted uneasily, bringing the object out to show the Colonel. "A biscuit, sir. Made of flour, I mean, not the sweet kind."

"Where did you get a biscuit?" said Tavington, nonplussed. Food supplies had been running low, and many troops had gone without a meal these last several days.

"The—the Baron von Pilsner made them for me, sir. And I must say, they're quite delicious! Would you like a bite?" Lawrence held out the biscuit toward Tavington, who rolled his eyes and ignored the query.

"Be ready to ride when I give the signal." He turned and marched out of the stables without waiting for Lawrence's response. He was in no humor to take that nincompoop's shenanigans today, not when so much depended on the outcome of this battle.

Tavington had his orders; he had informed Schoen to ready the Dragoons to ride in a quarter hour. He felt the blood coursing through his veins in a peculiar way—he felt peculiarly _alive_, as he always did before a battle. As he shrugged into his green coat, he realized with a shock that this was his first proper battle since Cowpens. All the more reason to be "reckless," then, whatever his orders to the contrary.

* * *

Several hours and a few miles' ride later, Tavington and his Dragoons were nearing the location that Cornwallis had indicated, the bulk of the army still behind them. Tavington halted his men southeast of the intended battle site in a conveniently wooded area.

"What are we doing, sir?" whispered Lawrence loudly.

"Quiet!" growled Tavington, in no mood to explain himself to Lawrence. Raising his voice slightly, he addressed himself to the whole legion. "Gentlemen! We are the advance guard, and you are familiar with the inherent responsibilities. We protect the perimeter while the General positions his troops, and that is a particularly important task today." He nudged his horse into motion, circling around his men. "But today I shall charge you with one additional duty. I expect that we may encounter _Lighthorse_ Harry Lee and his men this morning—" he paused in his speech to glare at Lawrence, whose face had lit up at the mention of Lee— "and I want to make something quite clear."

Tavington waited until he was back at the front of the group before continuing. "Lee is _mine_, gentlemen. If anyone else attempts to come to my aid in this particular fight, I shall see to his punishment _personally_. Am I understood?" There was a general mumble of assent, and Tavington looked at Lawrence once more. Lawrence appeared to be very interested in his horse's mane; Tavington took this as a sign of assent.

"Sir!" said Captain Schoen urgently. "Sir, I hear something!"

Tavington waved a hand, indicating the need for silence. In the distance, the pounding of hooves could be heard distinctly. Tavington could have smiled—unless he were gravely mistaken, his instincts were shortly to be proved correct. "Prepare for battle!" he said, and a sudden flurry of activity around him indicated that his men were readying themselves for imminent combat.

"To horse!" Lawrence yelled somewhere to his left—unnecessarily, as the Dragoons were already seated, but Tavington had more important things to see to: namely, the demise of Lee. Sword in his left hand, pistol in his right, he took aim—

And fired, as the clearing around them erupted with the sounds of battle. Tavington fired again, a savage triumph running through his veins as the rebel he had hit flew backward off his horse and landed, unmoving, on the frost-hardened ground below. He moved to reload his pistol as swords clashed around him, but before he could jam the next round into the barrel, a flash of movement to his left caused Tavington to extend his sword instinctively to halt whatever it was.

Blade crashed with blade and Tavington's left arm wrenched back with the force of the impact, his horse turning to meet this new threat head on. In one fluid motion, Tavington shoved his pistol back into the holster at his waist and transferred his sword to his right hand.

His attacker laughed and pulled his sword back. "Quick reflexes, I see," he said, moving his head as though to toss the blond hair that was pulled tightly back into a military queue.

"Lee," growled Tavington.

Lee nodded arrogantly. "And you must be—" He paused, drumming his fingers against his thigh as though they were having a pleasant conversation over a cup of tea rather than meeting in the heat of battle. "The name escapes me!"

Tavington's blood boiled as he faced his impudent opponent. The _nerve_ of this—

"Oh, Tavington! I _am _sorry." Lee grinned, blue eyes sparkling as though the whole thing were a jolly good joke.

With a growl, Tavington raised his sword and brought it whistling down toward Lee, who deflected the blow easily. "You'll have to try harder than that to beat _me_," he said, still smiling.

This time, Tavington didn't hesitate. He turned his horse and galloped past Lee, aiming a blow low at his back as he did so. Again, Lee blocked it, turning to meet Tavington again as the two began to fight in earnest. But the two were well-matched, and Tavington failed time and again to make contact even as Lee struggled to beat Tavington's defenses.

After several moments of one-on-one conflict, Tavington became cognizant that the sounds of battle around him had faded, but he neither knew nor cared whether his Dragoons had repulsed Lee's troops, so intent was he on taking down the man before him.

Abruptly, Lee drew back. "Well-met, Tavington! With a sword arm like that, you might almost be a Lee. Though," he continued before Tavington could retort, "I hear your wife's left you, regrettably. And that is very unlike a Lee!"

"My wife did not _leave_ me," growled Tavington before he thought better of it.

"Oh? Then where is she?" Lee smiled pleasantly, keeping himself and his horse just out of Tavington's reach. "I've never found it difficult to keep a woman happy."

Tavington was nearly blinded with rage—all he could think of was cutting the throat of this insolent fool who, somehow, knew about Kat. But try as he might, none of his blows could reach Lee, who continually danced just out of his reach.

"Well, Tavington, pleasant though this has been," said Lee, parrying a thrust of Tavington's that came dangerously close to his left ear, "I must be getting along now—battle to attend to, you see!" Lee turned his horse and began to gallop away through the trees.

"_Lee!_" bellowed Tavington, but Lee did not turn back. Tavington spurred his horse into motion and followed his nemesis into the trees and toward the battle.

* * *

Lieutenant Lawrence had been worried about the Colonel this morning, long before that odd speech he had given before they had been engaged by Lee's men. He hadn't seemed—quite right lately, though Lawrence couldn't say precisely how. Certainly Tavington had always been inclined toward irrational anger and vengeance, but today in particular his judgment seemed to have been overtaken by the desire to hunt down Lee. Lawrence had followed orders, of course, but once the majority of Lee's cavalry had fled, pursued by the remnant of the Dragoons, his duty had become less clear. As he watched Tavington's increasingly wild attempts to unhorse Lee, Lawrence wondered if he shouldn't go against orders and intervene: it was clear that Tavington was completely oblivious to anything beyond his personal duel.

Having ensured that all of the remaining rebel troops were in no state to pose a threat to his Colonel, Lawrence galloped out of the clearing and headed north to where he thought Cornwallis should be. He was in no position to stop Tavington himself, but the General certainly could—and Cornwallis would need the Dragoons today, their commander included.

Lawrence urged Daniel on, trying not to think of what might be happening to Tavington even now. He felt sympathetic toward the Colonel, certainly, and he shuddered to think what part he might have inadvertently played in Mrs. Tavington's disappearance—but he shouldn't think about that now, not with the urgency of the present situation!

After what seemed like an age, Lawrence reached the end of the woods—and saw ahead of him a clearing at the top of a hill, where he spotted His Majesty's colors. He had reached the command post at last! He slowed Daniel to a trot and approached Cornwallis. "Milord Cornwallis!" he cried as soon as he was close enough to the General.

Cornwallis recognized the urgency in Lawrence's tone and turned toward him. "What is it, Lieutenant?" he blustered, looking at Lawrence and then past him. His brow creased with worry. "Where is Colonel Tavington?"

"Engaged in battle with Lighthorse Harry Lee, Milord!" Lawrence would have explained further, but Cornwallis quieted him with a wave of his hand.

"Damn that man and his need for heroics!" he rumbled. "I need the Dragoons, Lieutenant! We're holding the rebels at the first and second lines—" he indicated the sloping hill in front of him— "but Greene has formed a third line past that! We _must_ break the line, Lawrence!"

"But, Milord—" Lawrence began, but a loud cry of pain stopped him midsentence. He watched, frozen in horror, as Cornwallis's horse crumpled beneath him, throwing the General to the ground. A crowd of his underlings immediately surged around him, lifting the befuddled Cornwallis to his feet.

Lawrence stayed only long enough to ensure that the General was unharmed before turning and galloping away into the woods once more. He knew what must be done.

* * *

Before long, Tavington found himself completely alone in the woods, all trace of Lee gone. He swore to himself; the _cowardice_ of that fool, refusing to stay and fight like a man! Tavington slowed his horse to a walk and took a deep breath, attempting to clear his head and remember that the battle was not yet lost. His Dragoons were dispersed, but perhaps if he rode north he could muster what troops remained at Greene's third line…he quickened his horse's pace once more, the lust for victory keeping him focused on the task at hand.

He rode north for perhaps a mile, picking his way through the dead leaves that littered the ground and keeping an eye out for fleeing troops. At last he saw the telltale flashes of gunpowder through the bare trees ahead of him and drew his sword, preparing mentally for battle once more.

But he was too late. As he emerged from the trees, he saw two lines—red and blue marching resolutely toward one another, blue far more abundant than red. The soldiers stopped, took aim, and fired; part of each line fell and did not get up again, but there were now more than twice as many rebels left. Tavington would not be the cause of another British loss; he had a duty to perform. He reared his horse, prepared to lead the men into what would certainly be the death of them all—but as he began to ride into the battle, he saw that he was not the first.

A lone figure on a white horse, dressed in the green coat of a Dragoon, emerged from the trees to the left of the British lines, riding out in front of the troops toward the enemy. The rebels stopped loading their guns and turned to stare in dread at the fearsome figure riding toward them. Sword held high, the Dragoon let out a formidable yell, calling the remaining British soldiers to arms—and the entirety of the rebel line, to a man, turned and fled back into the woods behind them, still pursued by the solitary soldier on the white horse. The British troops, meanwhile, marched resolutely toward the body of the rebel army, newly energized by the selfless display of bravery they had just witnessed.

Tavington, meanwhile, was suspicious about what he had just seen, and more than slightly curious. The soldier he had seen _couldn't_ be who he had thought…he galloped up the hill toward the woods into which rebels and Dragoon had disappeared, heedless of the continued battle to his right, determined to get to the bottom of the matter.

When he reached the crest of the opposite hill, he found Lieutenant Lawrence perched atop a cannon, munching happily on something as his horse looked on balefully.

When Lawrence saw Tavington, he nearly fell off the cannon. Straightening up, he saluted his superior, beaming. "Colonel Tavington, sir! Oh, I'm so delighted you're all right—I'm dreadfully sorry I had to leave you there, with Lighthorse Harry Lee! But General Cornwallis's horse was shot from under him, you know, and he said something about the third line, and everyone was all in a tizzy, so I felt I'd better come here and do something about it! Oh, and do look what the rebels left behind!" He indicated the cannon next to him, then held his hand out toward Tavington. "Would you care for a biscuit?"

* * *

"Do you know, Günther, I've been practicing my muzzle management quite a lot lately," said Lawrence loudly, as though the Baron could not hear him when no one else in the room was speaking. "I've been doing all the drills you suggested, and I think it's evident they helped today!"

The Baron nodded wisely. "Zis drilling, it is good. _Lecker_," he pronounced, taking another bite of his sausages.

Tavington rolled his eyes. Celebratory meals at the end of a battle well-fought were all well and good, but when the banquet involved Lawrence being hailed as a hero—well, he could do without it.

Cornwallis rapped his spoon against his wine glass. "Attention!" he boomed from his seat at the head of the table, and what little chatter there was—namely, Lawrence recounting again the way the 2nd Maryland had turned and run at the mere sight of him—ceased instantly. "A great victory was achieved today, for His Majesty and for mother England. And we would not have succeeded without the bravery displayed by each and every one of you." He paused, and a polite smattering of applause followed. "But the efforts of one officer in particular may have won us the battle—and an extra cannon to boot! Gentlemen—I say thee yea, _Captain_ Lawrence!"

Several things happened at this pronouncement. Lawrence, looking extensively pleased with himself, clapped his hands with excitement; the Baron rose to pat Lawrence heartily on the back; Tavington had a coughing spell, having choked on his wine; and the doors to the dining room opened with a flourish.

"I say, what have I missed?" drawled a voice all too familiar to Tavington. Lord Rawdon strode into the room, followed closely by a sergeant in a Hessian uniform. "Ah, getting a bit too free with Sir Richard, are we? Well, by all means, we must be included in the party!" Rawdon leaned over the table, seized the nearest glass—which happened to be Tavington's—and took a large sip. "Cheers!" he said. "To what are we toasting?"

"I've just been made Captain!" said Lawrence proudly.

"_Ja_, zis is _extreme wichtig_," said the Baron, also somewhat proudly. "_Lecker_."

The Hessian who had entered the room with Rawdon looked at the Baron oddly, then at Lawrence, and a look of understanding came over his face. He nodded, smiling, as Lord Rawdon drained the glass and motioned to the Hessian. "May I have the pleasure of presenting Seargent Koch?" he said. "A great hand with a musket, though I'm afraid he doesn't speak much English. Hessian, poor fellow. Koch, why don't you open us a bottle of champagne?" He mimed popping a cork, and Koch nodded again and rushed to a side table.

Meanwhile, Lawrence's sudden promotion seemed to have energized the group into conversation. Only Tavington was left silent, glaring at the now-empty glass that Rawdon had set back down in front of him. To his ever more intense displeasure, that gentleman now sat down next to him. "Ah, Reginald," he said thoughtfully, "I can only imagine that your silence is due to extreme pride at the promotion of your underling."

Tavington grunted. He was not at all in a humor to contend with Rawdon. Fortunately, he was spared further interrogation by a commotion in the corner, where Koch was apparently having some difficulty with the champagne cork. "Just ease it out slowly!" Lawrence was saying loudly.

"Zees has not happened with me before!" said the Hessian, whose accent was even thicker than the Baron's.

"_Ich war total überrascht_," agreed the Baron. "I vas sinking you should just pop it."

"Well, it's open now, anyway," said Lawrence. "Shall we have some biscuits to go with the champagne? I must say, Günther, these are positively scrumptious!"

The Baron looked confused. "Vat is zis—scrumptious?"

"Er…_lecker_?" said Lawrence nervously, as both of his companions nodded vigorously.

The excitement over, Rawdon apparently felt the need to engage Tavington in further conversation. "I hear you weren't able to get that Lighthorse Harry Lee. A dazzling fighter he is, eh, Reginald? And quite a dashing young fellow, too!"

Tavington grunted again, wondering how he could best extricate himself from the situation before his temper got the better of him. But before he could make an excuse, Rawdon struck again. "Oh, and my dear fellow, I was so sorry to hear about your dear wife. My lady Tavington will be sorely missed. Magnificent bosom, if you don't mind my saying so."

In fact Tavington _did_ mind, and he stood abruptly. "Excuse me," he growled, shoving his chair back and striding out of the dining room before anyone could stop him. But he had not yet reached the stairs when he heard Cornwallis's voice behind him.

"You are on dangerous ground, Colonel," said Cornwallis, his tone icy. "I have been lenient because I understand you to be grieved at the loss of your wife. But it has been two months, Tavington, and I have seen no evidence of improvement in your behavior." He walked slowly toward Tavington, speaking quietly—a sign, Tavington knew, of his seriousness. "Lawrence told me of your display with Lee this morning. I understand your desire to neutralize him, but you allowed your Dragoons to be scattered, and it could have cost us the battle, were it not for Lawrence's bravery. One more such incident and I shall be forced to transfer you, Tavington. I trust I have made myself clear." He turned and walked back into the dining room, leaving Tavington silent behind him.

Silent—for the time being.

**

* * *

**

**AN: Again, you all dazzle me with your continued support! Thanks so much for being incredible readers.**

**As to this chapter—I went largely for historical interpolation. (I don't think the 2****nd**** Maryland would have run away after one volley had Lawrence not charged them, for instance!) If you're ever in the neighborhood, I must say Guilford Court House is lovely.**

**Finally, thanks to TTT for beta-ing and **_**lots**_** of biscuits.**


	7. Big Hands I Know You're the One

_December 2009_

I stared down at the camera screen, willing my brain to make sense of what I was seeing. Intense déjà vu swept over me as I was overwhelmed by memories of the day I'd discovered William had survived Cowpens. I resolutely forced them to the back of my sluggish brain; if Bligh was here—here, in London, _now_—then I had to find him.

Fortunately, my legs reacted more quickly than my head, and before I realized it I was back inside the Portrait Gallery, forcing my way through a herd of tiny, uniformed schoolchildren. The rooms all seemed to have become significantly more crowded in the fifteen minutes since I'd left, but I didn't stop, skirting around an elderly couple and nearly shoving over a trio of Australian backpackers in my haste to make my way back to the hall that housed William's portrait.

When I reached William's portrait at last, a dozen of bored-looking teenage boys were gazing dubiously at it as an imperious old woman with towering hair stood in front of it, lecturing. There was no sign of Bligh. As I scanned the room, looking in vain for his tall, distinctive figure, the lecturer's words invaded my bubble of consciousness.

"Despite his escapades late in the Revolution, Tavington returned to England in late 1781 with his reputation reasonably unscathed and his ambitions intact. He and his companion James Lawrence settled in London, and before long Tavington decided to campaign for a seat in Parliament. However, a certain woman appeared in his life at this point, and—"

Abruptly, I realized that the tour guide was talking about _me_. I couldn't hear this—I had no desire to be a Cassandra-esque psychic, and I certainly didn't want to change history. Horrified, I did the only thing I could think of: I stuck my fingers in my ears and began humming loudly, practically sprinting out of the room. I could feel the eyes of the boys and their daunting overseer boring a hole into my back, but I didn't stop until I was well out of hearing range.

I paused to catch my breath, thinking about what I had just heard. While I didn't want to know any more, I now had two pieces of helpful information: William would be in London after 1781, and I now knew that Lawrence had also survived unscathed! But there was still the problem of finding Bligh. Knowing it was futile, I walked more slowly through the rooms toward the exit, wanting nothing more than my shoebox of a room and the opportunity to regroup.

I marched out of the gallery once more and headed back toward Trafalgar Square, strangely grateful for the head-clearing winter chill. As I walked down Whitehall, I looked into the face of every person I passed—but there was no sign of Bligh, as I had predicted. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to vanish, if it had been him I'd seen all of those times over the past few months.

And yet—something told me I would find him, given time, however improbable that was in a city of this size. As I neared Parliament Square, I looked up into the sky as if for confirmation and saw that the clouds had cleared somewhat to allow a few rays of weak, late-afternoon winter sunshine through, brightening my mood. By the time I at last climbed onto the number 53 bus that would take me back to my flat, I felt positively optimistic.

* * *

And yet, despite my initial optimism, I had no way of discovering Lieutenant Bligh without another stroke of luck. Days turned into weeks, and before I knew it, it was early December, and London was full of Christmas lights. If I weren't so on edge, I would have loved it; the city looked just like it did in _Love Actually_, but all I could think of was finding Bligh.

"Are you okay, Jess?" asked Oleg one Friday afternoon when we met for coffee in the King's cafeteria after class. "You seem—distracted."

I managed a small smile. "I'm fine, just…worried about exams." This was a lie, but at least a more acceptable cause for concern than the actual problem.

Oleg grinned. "Don't worry about them, you'll do fine. Anyway, it's not worrying about until after the holidays. You're going home, yeah?"

"No, actually, I'm staying here." There was no way I could face my parents and Paris again; my mother had tried to convince me to come home for Christmas, but I'd refused, telling her that I would be visiting a friend's family.

"Well, you've at least got somewhere to spend Christmas? Apart from your flat, I mean." Oleg looked concerned now.

"Oh, yeah. Visiting a family friend. In…Monaco," I said, grasping for the first place that came to mind.

Oleg nodded, looking impressed but faintly puzzled. "Sounds nice," he said.

I took a sip of my latte, my thoughts sliding back to Bligh, as they always did. How would I find him? I didn't see what I could really do, aside from spending as much time as I could observing people around London. It was just so _frustrating_, knowing he was so close and yet so far away….

"You're certain you're okay, Jess?" Oleg's voice snapped me out of my reverie.

I looked down at my hands, realizing that I had been drumming my fingers against the table. "Sorry," I said, seizing my latte and draining it. "I should really go, I have—stuff to do. You know, studying."

Oleg's eyes followed me with concern as I shrugged on my coat, gathered my bag, and stood up. "All right," he said. "I'm staying here for a bit. Do you want to come out later? We're going to the Rose and Crown."

"I might," I said over my shoulder, already halfway out the door. "I'll call you later."

I raced across the hall and down the staircase, not stopping until I was out in the courtyard. The frigid air felt good on my flushed face, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts before continuing on my trajectory toward the bus stop in front of King's. I hopped on the bus there, intending to head back to my flat at Great Dover, but I soon realized I was in no mood to sit in my room and brood. Instead, I got off the bus at Elephant & Castle, looking around bemusedly as though my surroundings would provide some inspiration.

As I gazed unseeingly at the restaurant in front of me (Castle Tandoori—I'd have to go there sometime…), I was struck by a sudden need to revisit the Tate. Perhaps that portrait of Cornwallis would provide me with guidance. Resolved, I crossed the street toward the bus stop, only to see the bus I needed approaching.

It could be fate, I mused as I boarded the C10. The very bus I needed appeared just when I had decided where to go (which _never_ happened)—and it was the very same bus I had thought I'd seen Lieutenant Bligh boarding on my first night in London. Perhaps he would be on the bus!

But Bligh was, unsurprisingly, missing from the dozen or so people scattered around the C10. I settled myself into a seat next to the window, watching the streets slide past as a grey drizzle overtook London. Rationally, I knew this whole thing was silly—I had no way of knowing if he was even still in the city, or in this century—but I couldn't just give up. I _had_ to find my way back to William.

I suddenly felt as though I needed fresh air. The bus now seemed stuffy, and I decided to get out as soon as we'd crossed the bridge and walk the rest of the way to the museum. We were already nearing the river; I pressed the button to request a stop and stood up, still looking out the window as we started over Lambeth Bridge.

I made my way to the front, settling down on the seat nearest the door, still staring out the window as the bus entered a roundabout between two enormous, identical box-like office buildings. The area around the buildings was eerily deserted, but as we passed the right-hand one, I noticed a trio of men exiting the building, one walking slightly ahead of the other two. The man in front was tall, clad in jeans and a button-down shirt that looked all too familiar…

"Lieutenant Bligh!" I shrieked, causing everyone in the bus to look aghast at me, including the driver. "You have to stop!" I said loudly, my eyes fixed on Bligh.

"Can't, miss, sorry," he said, eyes now directed at the road once again. "Next stop's just a bit further."

"Please, stop here!" I cried. "You don't understand! That man there—he's—he's my—my friend!" When this didn't elicit a response, I kept going. "I'm in love with him! I'm—I'm having his baby!"

This had no effect on the implacable driver, but it did make all of the passengers stare at me with even greater astonishment. One woman clapped her hands over her daughter's ears, glaring at me. "Sorry, miss. Stop's just up here."

"But—" I stopped, realizing there was no use, and turned back to look at Bligh and his companions, a leggy blond wearing a suit and a tall, dark-haired man in a denim shirt. "What's that building back there?"

"Thames House," said the driver, looking sideways at me. "Thought you'd have known that, miss. Your man's a spook, eh?"

I didn't have the faintest idea what any of that meant, but I nodded knowingly. "Right," I said as we turned the corner. "Look, can you _please_—"

"Stop's right there," the driver said, nodding toward the stop now half a block from us as the bus began to slow.

"Thanks," I said, preparing to leap out the door.

"Good luck, miss," said the driver as he pressed the button that released the door.

I nodded again and sprang out the door as it folded open, leaving a busload of bemused people behind me. Ignoring the rain now pouring down upon my head, I sprinted back toward the bridge along the route the bus had just followed. As I rounded the corner, I slowed to a walk. The roundabout was empty once more, save for a black taxi that was pulling out of the circle as I approached. There was no sign of Bligh and his companions—not that I had really expected there to be.

Now soaking wet, I crossed the circle, peering down the streets as I went. There were no pedestrians anywhere, and I had no way of knowing where Bligh had gone. Resisting the urge to burst into tears, I walked slowly back toward the bus stop, feeling utterly let down.

How was I ever going to find Bligh if he kept disappearing the moment I spotted him?

* * *

In the end, I didn't even make it to the Tate. By the time I got close, I was sopping wet and absolutely freezing, and the museum was due to close in a half hour. Instead, I got back on the bus and headed home to my flat. I felt much better after a hot shower, but I definitely didn't feel up to going out with Oleg and his crew. So I put on my pajamas, made a cup of tea, and called Paris.

"Are you okay, Jess?" was the first thing Paris said after he picked up the phone.

I rolled my eyes. "Why does everyone keep asking me that today?"

"You sound really—pessimistic. Did something happen?"

I'd already told him about the picture I had taken in the Portrait Gallery, so I filled him in quickly on what had just happened. "I just feel like I'll never actually _connect_ with Bligh. It's going to end up being this awful wild goose chase, and I'll never get back."

"Don't say that." Paris's voice was wonderfully calming. "You just have to let it happen. This isn't the kind of thing you can force—it's fate."

"You think?" I said, doubtful. "I don't know if I'd call it fate."

"Destiny, then. Luck. Call it whatever you want. But this is hardly something that happens to everyone, Jess. You know, time travel and everything. You'll just have to trust that if you're meant to get back, you will."

"I guess," I said, still not convinced. "Hey, how are things with Bill?"

Paris perked up at the mention of his boyfriend, as he always did, and we chatted comfortably for a while. But it wasn't long before I started worrying about Bligh again. Suddenly wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I announced that I was going to get ready for bed.

"Isn't it, like, 8:30 there?"

"Yes," I said, somewhat defensively. "It's been a long day. I just want to go to sleep."

"Okay, but Jess? You have to promise me that you won't let this take over your life."

I rolled my eyes again. "I'll try."

"That's not good enough!" said Paris. "Promise."

He did have a point, and the concern in his voice was enough to win me over. "I promise."

"Good girl," he said. "Take care, Jess. Have a good night."

"You too. Bye." I put the phone down and sighed heavily. I wished that I had a confidant on this continent with whom I could talk about all of this, someone who could help me find Bligh—but, though I liked Oleg, I didn't know him well enough to trust him with something this big. After mulling for another moment, I sighed and stood up, rubbing my eyes. However silly it seemed, I had made a promise to Paris, and I owed it to both of us to try to keep it—I had to stop thinking about this. It wasn't going to get me anywhere.

* * *

I woke up early the next morning (unsurprisingly, given how early I had gone to bed), feeling much better. I sat up in bed and pulled open the curtain to see blinding sunlight and a bright blue sky dotted with wispy clouds. It was probably cold out, but it would be a beautiful day, and I had every intention of making the most of it.

By the time I was dressed, I had a plan for the day: Christmas shopping in Oxford Street! I had to get a package sent out to my parents soon if I wanted it to arrive before the holidays, and a sunny Saturday seemed an ideal time to buy presents and admire the city's decorations. Humming to myself, I pulled on my boots and jacket, then reached for my scarf, a cheerful red pashmina I'd purchased in Oxford Street. As I wrapped it around my neck, I remembered Lieutenant Lawrence and his beloved red scarf that he had lent me for my wedding. He would have loved this one, I thought wistfully. I sighed, my good mood threatening to dissolve at the thought of everyone I had left behind. I shook my head, willing my thoughts to go away; I had to get going now, or I'd lose my initiative.

As I headed out the door of my building and into the courtyard, I pulled my iPod out of my bag, pressed play—and heard the distinctive opening chords of "Love Generation" resonating in my ears. I sighed loudly; if even my iPod was going to conspire against me, this was going to be an awful day. _Everything_ seemed to point back to Bligh—but, without happening upon him again randomly, there was absolutely nothing I could do. I stormed up the stairs and into the lobby of the building, past the sleepy-looking security guard and a large poster proclaiming that "Cannabis Is Still Illegal," and out the front door, my mood getting worse with every step I took.

By the time I made it to Oxford Street, though, I was somewhat cheered by the lights and snowflakes displayed across the city; and once I started ducking in and out of shops, I was determinedly happy. Nothing was more therapeutic than shopping, particularly when there was Christmas music playing in all the stores. Even the people seemed friendlier than usual (not that that was saying much for Londoners as a rule, in my experience).

My progress down Oxford Street and then Regent Street was very slow; in virtually every window I passed, I saw something that would be perfect for my mom, my dad, Paris, my grandparents, Mrs. Gruenblatt, a friend from school. By the time I had finished, it was late afternoon, the sun had set long ago, and, though I was satisfied with my purchases, I was exhausted. My cheeks stung from sustained exposure to the wind, my hands were frozen solid, and my arms were aching from all of the bags I was now carrying—on top of which, I was _starving_. I looked around in search of sustenance, my eyes landing on a Starbucks across the street. A caramel macchiato and some sort of pastry sounded heavenly, and almost before I knew it, I was inside and in an absurdly long line.

The queue moved painfully slowly, and I eventually gave up and set my bags on the ground, seeing no point in continuing to hold them all when I was moving about a foot every five minutes. Drumming my fingers on the glass of the food display case, I turned around to survey the line behind me, which was even longer than it had been when I came in. I directed my gaze past the queue and out the window to the street, watching crowds of people bustle past. Just to the left of the door, a woman was selling pashminas from a stand. My eye fixed on a bright purple scarf, and I stared at it, not really thinking about what I was seeing, simply glad to be inside and warm. As I watched, a man pulled out the purple scarf, pressed a bill into the seller's hand, and turned away down the street. My gaze followed the man holding the scarf for another moment before it dawned on me: it was Bligh.

"No!" I squawked, ignoring the startled looks of everyone around me—this was happening entirely too frequently, and I was _not_ going to let him get away again. Seizing the handles of all of my bags from the floor, I began to shove my way past all of the now-irate customers toward the door. "Sorry—sorry," I gasped, trying desperately to get out the door without stepping on too many people's toes.

After what seemed an eternity, I was back out on the street, jostling my way through the crowds of people mobbing the sidewalk. For a moment, I thought I glimpsed the back of Bligh's head above the throng, but the next second, I had lost him. Cursing under my breath, I continued to half-shove, half-jog my way down the street—but by the time I reached Piccadilly Circus, I knew it was pointless. There was no sign of Bligh anywhere.

I considered my options. I could throw all of my bags down in the street and start sobbing uncontrollably (highly tempting)—or I could calmly walk across the street to Pizza Hut, order myself a mountain of food, and assess my options like an adult. In the end, food won out (though I doubted I could actually make it through the meal without breaking down in tears), and a moment later I was standing inside the wonderfully familiar environment of Pizza Hut, my mouth already watering from the smell.

"How many, miss?" A smiling host loomed up in front of my face, startling me.

"Um, just one," I replied, surveying the busy restaurant. A lot of couples, a few larger groups—it looked like I would be the only one dining alone, but I was determined not to let it bother me. For a moment, I contemplated calling Oleg, but then dismissed the idea, not wanting to seem desperate.

"This way, miss," said the host, leading me through the crowded room to a staircase in the back. I climbed up obediently behind him to find another room that was nearly full, save for a pair of tiny tables in a back corner. The host bowed me toward one of these, handed me a menu, and disappeared. Seating myself against the wall so I could look out across the restaurant, I eyed the other table apprehensively; a shopping bag and an umbrella were leaned against one of the seats, indicating that someone was sitting there. Given the proximity of the tables, this could get very uncomfortable, and I resigned myself to the idea of an awkward hour of pizza-eating while a couple enjoyed a romantic dinner a foot to my right. Oh, well; at least I had a good view of the room, which would make for some interesting people-watching.

My head buried in the menu, I looked up when I sensed someone approaching my table—and nearly had a heart attack. "_Lieutenant Bligh!!_" I shrieked, hurling myself out of my chair toward him, almost tipping over the table in my haste.

I just had time to note his bewildered expression (and, of course, those of the thirty other people in the room, all of whom seemed to have gone suddenly silent) before I threw my arms around him. After a moment, he patted me awkwardly on the back, and a faint hum of conversation began once more.

I pulled away, tears now streaming freely down my cheeks. "I thought I'd never catch up to you! I've been seeing you _everywhere_ but I could never get to you—I thought I'd never get back—what are you _doing_ here?"

His initial shock seemed to have worn off, and now he looked at least marginally glad to see me, if still confused. He motioned me back into my chair and seated himself next to me at the table over. Baffled at his seating choice, I pointed to the chair across from me. "Don't you want to sit there? So we can talk?"

He shook his head, giving me a quelling look, and picked up his menu. Puzzled, I did the same, looking over at him every now and then, but he was ignoring me. I knew there had to be a reason for it, but I could barely focus on the menu—I was too curious about Bligh's strange behavior.

A server came to take our orders a moment later, and once he had departed with the menus, I turned to Bligh. "What is going _on_, Lieutenant?" I said loudly.

His eyes darted around the room again before he answered. "Call me Glen," he said, his voice low.

"Glen?" I repeated, nonplussed. "Your name is _Glen_?"

"No, it's Goliath, but I go by Glen to avoid suspicion." Now I was more confused than ever.

"_Goliath?_" I tried to keep my voice low to match his tone, but it came out as more of a squeak. Who on earth would name a child Goliath?

"I was a big baby," he said defensively, as though reading my thoughts.

I shook my head, confused. There were more important matters at hand than the strangeness of Bligh's name. "What's happening? Why don't you want to sit at this table?"

"Don't want to arouse suspicion," he said, still staring straight ahead instead of addressing himself to me.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't you think this is a little more conspicuous? Having a conversation without looking at each other?"

He shook his head. "Salad bar," he hissed. "I'll be back."

This was absurd, and I was losing my patience fast. What was the good of finally finding Bligh if he refused to tell me anything? Fortunately, just as I was thinking this, the waiter appeared with my wine. I sipped it gratefully, willing myself to remain calm. He had to have reason for his evasiveness; of course he would tell me in time what was going on.

A moment later, Bligh reappeared, his plate heaped high with lettuce and bacon bits. Without acknowledging me, he sat down, tucked his napkin into the collar of his shirt, and dug into his salad. I couldn't _believe _how rude he was being. If I weren't so afraid of losing track of him again, I would have stormed out of the restaurant. But there was nothing I could do, so I settled for drinking my wine and shooting an occasional glare in his direction.

Once he had finished his salad, Bligh leaned back in his chair and sighed contentedly. "Hadn't eaten in _ages_," he said, glancing over at me.

"Oh, so you're talking to me now?" I said irritably. "Care to explain what's going on?"

"Can't," he said, sounding as cheerful as I had ever heard him. "Food's here!"

I would have retorted, but I couldn't help but be excited at the prospect of food myself. The wine was already making my head slightly fuzzy, and I dug into my pizza gratefully. I ate in silence, listening to the buzz of conversation around me and thinking….

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of humming, very close to me. I looked over at Bligh, who was munching his pizza and nodding along to the music. "Nelly Furtado?" I said aloud, astonished.

To his credit, Bligh looked abashed. "I like this song," he mumbled defensively, taking another huge bite of pizza.

I giggled. "Are you ready to talk, then, or should we wait until 'Maneater' is over?"

He glared back at me, then turned to face forward once more. "We can talk, it just can't look like we're talking."

I stared at him. "Why?"

"They might be watching," said Bligh cryptically. He reached for another piece of sausage.

"Who might be watching?" I asked, baffled. "Are you worried about French high schoolers?"

He looked at me, then followed my gaze to the rowdy group of teens at the table nearest us, who were apparently having a great time tossing straw wrappers at each other. "Can't take any chances," he replied gruffly.

I let it go. "How long have you been here?"

"In London? Not long," he said. "I've been traveling. Had to go to Monte Carlo."

"Monaco?"

He nodded, still chewing. "I needed some chips."

I had no idea what he was talking about—there were plenty of fish and chips shops in London—but I let it go. "Well, how long have you been—you know—_back_?" I stared at him meaningfully, but he refused to meet my eye.

"_Later_," he hissed, under the guise of passing his napkin across his mouth.

Fuming, I sat back in my chair, arms folded. If Bligh wasn't going to talk, neither was I. I sat in silence while he finished his pizza, ordered a banana split, and ate it. Finally, we had each paid our bills, and he stood to leave. I shoved back my chair to follow him, but as he bent down to pick up his umbrella and shopping bag, he muttered, "Old Vic. Thirty minutes." Shoving by me, he was gone before I could respond. I had no choice but to follow him.

I knew where the Old Vic was, since I passed it on the bus every day. I figured I might find Bligh in the street when I left Pizza Hut—I was less than a minute behind him—but of course he had vanished already. All I could do was get on a bus and hope he would really be there when I arrived. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long for the 453 to come; it was crowded, though, and I was relieved when it had wound its way down Whitehall, past Parliament, and across the bridge.

I got off the bus just past Waterloo and walked purposefully toward our appointed meeting place, but as I approached the Old Vic, I saw no sign of Bligh. I folded my arms, annoyed—then shrieked as a large hand grasped my shoulder.

"Sorry," said Bligh gruffly, stepping out from the shadowy corner where he had been concealed.

I rolled my eyes, my heart still thumping wildly. "What's with all the subterfuge?" I demanded, following him somewhat unwillingly across the street. "You're acting like a spy or something!"

He said nothing, simply frowning down at me as we reached the opposite sidewalk.

"Okay, _fine_," I huffed. "You don't want to give me any useful information. But don't you think you owe me some explanation as to why you've been running away from me?"

If possible, Bligh was now frowning even more. "I didn't know you were here. Until Pizza Hut, I mean."

This was maddening, but I decided to play along. "Well, what have you been doing in London, then?"

"I told you, I haven't been in London. I was traveling."

"To Monaco, I _know_. But how long have you been back?"

Bligh stroked his chin, thinking. "Since…March 2007."

"March 2007?" This made no sense. "But that was before I even left!"

He nodded. "Time travel, you know. Best not to think about it too much."

I paused, thinking. "Well—when did you leave?"

"A few hours after you did, I reckon. Had to get out before the army found me."

I didn't bother asking which army. "But how did you find another portal that quickly?"

He took a moment to answer. "I didn't."

I stopped in my tracks. "What? Then how did you get back?"

"I…uh…hitched a ride. Back to London," said Bligh, looking shifty.

_Hitched a ride?_ How could you possibly hitch a ride where time travel was concerned? "With who?" I said, my attention to grammatical rules flying out the window along with the remnants of my sanity.

"Aye," said Bligh, "the doctor. You know, in that big blue box." He made the shape of a box in the air with his large hands, but this did nothing to elucidate his point.

"Okay," I said, as we turned down a poorly lit side street. "So—you got back here in March 2007. What have you been doing for the last two and a half years? Besides travelling," I added, preempting him.

Bligh rubbed his stubbled chin with a vast hand. "Dunno, really. Made more maps, worked on a potato farm for a while. And, you know…." He made an ambiguous hand gesture.

"What?" I asked, baffled.

"Well, I can't talk about it, can I?"

I ignored his supercilious tone, suddenly concerned with our surroundings. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere we can talk."

"But we're talking now!"

He ignored me, pointing to a building ahead and on the left. Brightly colored chili pepper-shaped lights adorned the windows, casting a colorful glow on the faces of the people dancing inside. "We're going to a salsa bar?" I asked, incredulous. "This must be, like, the only one in London! How did you find it?"

"Some friends," he said mysteriously.

We had reached the building by now, and Bligh opened the door to usher me inside. Salsa music and the smell of Mexican food overwhelmed my senses. "You think we can _talk_ in here?" I yelled over the music and the hum of voices.

He didn't answer, simply steering me to a table in the corner. "D'you fancy a drink?" he asked.

"Um…a beer, I guess," I said. He nodded and disappeared, leaving me to gaze around the bar, my thoughts wandering. It was finally setting in that I had finally found Bligh, and now that I had, the tug of fate—if that's what it was called—was stronger than ever. I needed to get back to William, the sooner the better. But before I did anything, I needed some answers. Why had Bligh stayed here so long, leaving his business in the past (presumably) unfinished? Why hadn't he tried to contact me?

Just as I was wondering this, Bligh reappeared with two beers, one significantly smaller than the other. He slid the larger across the table to me. "Thanks," I said, and we sipped in silence for a moment, until I couldn't take it any longer. "Why the _hell_ didn't you try to contact me?" I said finally. "You knew where I was."

He shrugged sadly. "What would have been the point? I mean, of course it's nice to see you," he added quickly, seeing the look on my face. "But we left all that behind us."

I couldn't understand his attitude. "But—Lawrence is your best friend! How could you just leave him? Leave them all? I mean, I know we had to leave Cowpens, but why didn't you go back afterward?"

He shook his head, taking another sip of beer. "No point," he said gruffly, gazing past me.

"What do you mean, no point?" I demanded. "You're really okay with your decision just to abandon them all? God knows what Lawrence thinks—thought—thinks—" I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the tense confusion that invariably accompanied any discussion of time travel—"and the General, and Rutledge, and—everyone…" I couldn't bring myself to say William's name aloud.

"They're dead," said Bligh brusquely.

"Well, I _know _they are _now_," I said, suppressing the slight shiver that affected me whenever I thought of this. "But why didn't you go back when you found out that they weren't then?"

"Weren't what when?" Now he looked confused.

"When you found out they hadn't died at Cowpens, I mean!"

Bligh stared at me uncomprehendingly. "Eh?"

"Wait," I said slowly. "You've been back two and a half years, and you never_ checked_ on any of this?" I wasn't about to admit that I hadn't had the courage to do so either.

"No," he said, still staring at me. "Are you certain?"

I nodded. "Wi—the Colonel returned to London after the war and ran for Parliament. I don't know any more than that because—I was afraid I'd change history."

Bligh snorted into his beer. "Bit late for that, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't—what? What do you mean? Did I…?" Was he intimating that I _had_ already changed history? What if I had—made the British win the war, or something??

"Told you, it's best not to think about it," he said imperturbably.

I shook my head. I could go crazy thinking about this. "Anyway. You know now, so—when are we leaving?"

He stared at me. "Leaving?"

"Yes! Obviously we _have_ to go back." Why was he acting so weird about this?

"Um," said Bligh, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I don't know whether we'd be welcomed back."

He did have a point, I supposed. "Well, maybe _you_ wouldn't, but—I'd vouch for you!"

"Yeah? And where will you say you've been all this time, eh?" Bligh drained his beer and stood up.

"Where are you going?" I said, staring at him. "I thought we were meant to be talking?"

"What would you call this conversation we just had, then?" He seemed almost annoyed, and I couldn't understand why. When I opened my mouth to retort, he held out a huge hand toward me, silencing me. "Listen, if we're going back, I'll need some time to get things in order. You'll be in London for a while, yeah?"

"I'm studying here," I said.

"All right, then." He pulled on his coat, grabbed the umbrella and shopping bag, and turned back toward me. "See you."

"Wait!" I said, leaping to my feet. "How will I find you again? Do you want my number?"

"Nah, never really got the phone thing," he said. "I'll be in touch."

Nonplussed, I watched as he wove through the crowd and disappeared through the door. I sighed and took a long swig of my beer. I was disappointed that we wouldn't be leaving immediately and _extremely_ frustrated at Bligh's reticence, but I felt—at last—like things were moving. As Paris had said, I couldn't force destiny.

* * *

**AN: So there it is—a very long wait, but a long(er than anticipated) chapter. Thank you so much to all of you who reviewed; sometimes I do need a bit of a nudge, and I appreciate your pushing me to write more! In particular, I have to thank ABabblingBrook, LazyChestnut, Luthien Saralonde, xFlipperx, and Cid62 for sticking with the story despite my sometimes prolongued absences.  
**

**Thanks, as always, to TTT for ensuring denim-clad accuracy.**


	8. It's Raining Men

_May 1781_

"_Lawrence!_" bellowed Tavington, throwing down the letter he had just received.

But there was no answer from outside his tent, no nervous scurrying feet indicating that his eager-to-please underling had heard him. Instead, the courier from whom he had obtained the note moments before peered nervously at him around the flap of the tent. "S-sir, Captain Lawrence isn't here, sir. I—I think he's with the Baron von Pilsner, sir."

Tavington swore loudly, causing the courier to leap back out of sight. Shoving back his chair, he snatched the letter and stood up so quickly he very nearly upset his writing table. He strode quickly outside and past the courier, who now stood at rigid attention next to the tent. Tavington paused, then turned and marched back toward the petrified boy. "Do not ever presume to enter my quarters unbidden, Private, or I shall _ensure_ that you remain a private until the end of your days—whenever that end may come. Am I understood?" Without waiting for a response, he turned away again and continued toward the Baron's quarters, leaving the courier quivering with fear.

On some level, Tavington realized he was overreacting; but he could hardly help the wave of rage that coursed through him whenever he heard Lawrence referred to as "Captain." Somehow, the lieutenant's promotion had become emblematic to Tavington of everything that had gone wrong in the months since Cowpens: his injuries, his failure to capture or neutralize Lee, the continual disapproval of Cornwallis.

Of course, all of these problems could be traced in turn back to—_No, he would not think about her now_. Not yet, anyway. Tavington had survived these trying months on a self-imposed regimen of continual physical exertion and constant punishment of his men, avoiding all contemplation of the woman who, with her absence, had made him into a mockery. His perpetual rage and recklessness had lost him whatever favor he had formerly held with Cornwallis, who now refrained from any conversation with Tavington that did not pertain directly to the business of war. Not that Tavington regretted this particular development; he found it much easier to focus his energies on battle when he was not continually forced to ingratiate himself to his superiors—a task at which Lawrence, most unfortunately, excelled.

But that was not the reason for Tavington's current consternation and consequent quest to find the erstwhile lieutenant. No, his present foul mood was due entirely to the letter he had just read, and as he considered again the contents thereof, his temper boiled over. He had stumbled upon the courier as he crossed the camp in search of Cornwallis. Upon questioning, he had revealed that the letter had been intercepted with a parcel of other rebel correspondence and was bound for the General; but the boy was young and inexperienced, and Tavington had had little trouble coercing him into releasing the epistle into his possession.

As Tavington rounded the corner of the row of tents, his chosen target came into view. Less fortunately, Lawrence didn't appear to be panicking at the fearsome sight of his Colonel, as Tavington had hoped. In fact, Lawrence seemed to be completely absorbed in the task at hand: namely, making horrendous noises on a large brass instrument.

The Baron von Pilsner was standing just behind Lawrence, nodding proudly. "_Ja_, just blow zis," he said, patting Lawrence's shoulder.

"Lawrence!" cried Tavington, but there was no response. Tavington grimaced to himself and strode forward, directly into Lawrence's line of vision. "_Lawrence!_"

The particular note of belligerence in his superior's voice could still stop Lawrence, who knew all too well what such rage could portend, cold in his tracks. Looking somewhat guilty at the sound of his name, Lawrence reluctantly put down the instrument and stood at attention. "Sir?"

"What the devil do you mean by—_that_?" Against his will, Tavington was distracted by the instrument now hanging loosely at Lawrence's side.

"It's a trombone!" chirped Lawrence, casting an admiring glance down at the shining brass. "Isn't it lovely? The Baron had it sent from Prussia!"

Tavington's curiosity had evaporated into pure rage. "Dispense of it, Lieutenant."

Looking abashed, and now somewhat sulky at his implied demotion, Lawrence reluctantly set the trombone on the ground. He cast a glance back at the Baron, who shrugged apologetically and, after a glance at the clearly fuming Tavington, bowed politely. "I shall leaf you to zis business," he said, and vanished around the corner of the nearest tent.

"Now, Lieutenant," said Tavington dangerously.

Lawrence frowned, clearly unhappy with the mistake in titling, but—wisely—elected not to argue with the Colonel. "Yes, sir?"

"What _precisely_ is this?" Tavington thrust a gloved hand in Lawrence's face, displaying the now-crumpled letter.

Trembling slightly, Lawrence reached out to take the note, casting a furtive glance at Tavington as he did so. But the ice-blue eyes showed no trace of leniency, and Lawrence quickly directed his gaze down to examine the letter. A moment passed in silence as he perused its contents, and then he looked back up, countenance positively glowing. "But—this is from Edward!"

"_Yes_," growled Tavington. "Are there any other woefully apparent observations you would care to make?"

Lawrence frowned, turning the letter over. "It's to—Lee!" he exclaimed, the excitement in his voice fading slightly as he caught sight of Tavington once more.

"Not _that_ Lee," Tavington spat through clenched teeth, "though this one is hardly better. What else, Lieutenant?"

But Lawrence's jaw had dropped open, and he was oblivious to the slight. "It's from _Monticello_!" he breathed reverently. "So _that's_ where he's got to! It's supposed to be perfectly lovely there, you know, from everything he told me! Apparently he and Jefferson used to…" His voice trailed off as he considered Tavington, who was moving toward him with what appeared to be deadly intent.

"Do you mean to say that you had some reason to believe—some inclination that Rutledge might be there?" Lawrence shook his head frantically. "That _is_ curious," said Tavington, his voice now thoughtful. He backed away slightly, causing Lawrence to relax. "Curious, particularly since he mentions you in the letter. Or did that escape your notice?"

"I—but—he—where?" spluttered Lawrence, looking wildly about like a cornered animal.

Tavington seized the parchment back from Lawrence and brandished it at him. "There, Lieutenant!" he said, jabbing a finger at the epistle's last paragraph. "Read it aloud, please."

Lawrence leaned forward to peer at the note. "'You may recall that, at the time of our last meeting, we discussed a certain lieutenant who had been a constant companion to me in my time of need. Perhaps you might try to arrange a rendezvous with him yourself; he is both noble of spirit and quite charming, and could be just the ally you require to support your cause'." Evidently quite pleased with himself, he looked back at Tavington, whose glare was enough to remind Lawrence of the present dire circumstances.

"You would describe yourself as both noble and charming, would you not, _Lieutenant_?" growled Tavington.

Lawrence looked petrified. "I—well, _I_ wouldn't use those adjectives precisely, perhaps, but—"

"_Quiet!_" Tavington roared. "Do you have any idea of the precarious situation your indiscretions have placed you in, Lieutenant? Need I remind you what the penalty for sedition is? Death, Lawrence! I doubt you would be quite so _charming_ with a noose around your neck." To his credit, Lawrence said nothing, nor did he look at the Colonel; Tavington took his silence as confirmation of guilt. "We will only speak of this topic once, Lieutenant, and I expect that, as an officer in His Majesty's Army and a member of the Green Dragoons, your answers will be complete and truthful."

"Yes, sir," mumbled Lawrence, looking steadfastly at the ground at Tavington's feet.

"Have you ever met with or passed information to Richard Henry Lee?" Tavington's icy stare was fixed on Lawrence's countenance, and the quivering captain raised his eyes to meet the Colonel's.

"No, sir, I have not."

"Did you ever pass information to Edward Rutledge or otherwise provide support for the rebel cause?"

"No, sir." Lawrence's voice was quiet but steady.

Tavington held his gaze for a moment, then sighed inwardly. Entirely against his wishes, he could not help but believe that Lawrence was telling the truth. Who, then, could be the lieutenant mentioned in the letter? Lawrence was the only lieutenant who had had any contact with Rutledge while the nincompoop had been held captive—well, except for Bligh. But whatever Bligh's faults—and Tavington could name many, desertion, treason, and potential adultery among them—he was forced to own that getting along with Rutledge had not been one.

"Well, Lawrence," said Tavington, and his underling relaxed visibly at the change in his tone of voice. "It is obvious what must be done."

"It—it is?" Lawrence did not sound entirely at ease.

"Yes, Lieutenant," snapped Tavington. "We ride before dawn. To Monticello."

* * *

Tavington was, all in all, quite pleased at the way things had worked out. His interception of Rutledge's note had been a stroke of luck. A nearly disastrous situation had resolved itself into an opportunity for him to redeem himself in the eyes of Cornwallis while also avenging himself on several of his most hated enemies; the General would have no choice but to recognize Tavington as a hero when he returned with not only Rutledge but also Thomas Jefferson as prisoner. And if, as he half-suspected, his adulterant wife did happen to be at Monticello—well, then, he would have his retribution.

Lawrence had not been quite so enthused at the prospect, particularly after he learned that he would be the only other officer riding with Tavington. His displeasure had only increased when Tavington informed him that no one else was to know about the mission, including Cornwallis. "But sir, won't the General wonder where we've got to? What if he finds out we've gone to Monticello without orders?"

"My orders are sufficient motive for you, Lieutenant. General Lord Cornwallis wants this war won, and I am going to assist him in that cause. Any further implications do not concern you." The threat in Tavington's voice had been enough to silence Lawrence, at least for the moment, though he still looked far from happy.

And so, as they stole out from the camp before reveille the following morning, Tavington felt more focused in purpose than he had in some time. He had no doubt that capturing Rutledge, at least, would go a long way toward mitigating his continual rage, particularly if Rutledge was _accidentally_ injured in the process. As he and Lawrence rode silently through the rolling fields beneath a grey pre-dawn sky shot with pink and orange, Tavington amused himself by picturing the looks on the faces of the traitors when they realized who he was.

It was a full day's ride to their destination, and neither spoke much, for which Tavington was profoundly grateful. The sun was low in the summer sky by the time they neared the rolling hills around the town called Charlottesville. Lawrence now seemed to radiate a nervous energy, and Tavington, though he was grateful that his companion had not regressed to his habit of nervous jabbering, found himself wondering what the younger man was thinking. He hoped, not for the first time, that he had not allowed himself to be misled by Lawrence's earnestness; if this had all been some sort of ruse to lure him to Jefferson's home, Tavington's circumstances would be dire indeed. Still, he relished the thought of a fight; and he had no doubt that, even outnumbered, he could handle the traitorous dandies.

Several miles east of the town, they came to a halt to examine the map Lawrence had brought along. "I believe it's just to the west a bit," Lawrence said, peering at the map.

"You don't suppose it might be there," Tavington replied drily, nodding toward an oddly-shaped building clearly visible atop the mountain directly in front of them.

"Oh!" gasped Lawrence. "Isn't it lovely? Yes, it's just as Edward described!" Suddenly remembering his companion, he stopped short in his admiration, looking abashed at Tavington's darkening countenance.

"We must reach the house before nightfall. Come, Lieutenant!" Tavington guided his horse around and set out at a gallop toward the dirt path leading up the mountain. With a sigh of trepidation, Lawrence followed him dutifully.

* * *

As his horse picked its way up toward the house atop the mountain, Lawrence several steps behind him, Tavington was forced to admit that Jefferson did have some taste. The setting sun cast a warm orange glow upon the hills surrounding the valley behind them, and the whole scene was nothing short of picturesque. Tavington pondered, briefly, the idea of seizing Monticello for himself: he would take great pleasure in striking such a blow to the colonial psyche, and to Jefferson in particular. But, however much he relished that particular aspect of the plan, he knew he would return to England after this tiresome rebellion was quashed. The New World had never held much intrigue for him, aside from providing a change of scenery; and he was quite ready to return to his family's ancestral lands, father a brood of strapping sons, and earn himself a peerage.

Tavington frowned, shaking this line of thought from his head. It must be Lawrence's influence that was leading him to such a pathetic activity as dreaming of the future; nothing mattered now but his imminent capture of Rutledge and Jefferson. He pushed all other thoughts out of his head, firmly resisting the temptation to think about Kat's whereabouts—after all, he would find out soon enough just why she had determined that it was wise to leave and deprive him of his heir.

The sun was threatening to slip below the line of the horizon by the time they dismounted near the top of the mountain. Tavington tethered his horse to a tree and nodded at Lawrence to do the same, which he did with some hesitation; master and horse regarded each other balefully before Lawrence patted the beast's nose and followed the Colonel up to the edge of the thick wood through which they had ridden.

The trees gave way gracefully to a small vineyard, separated by a dirt road from the mountain's summit. Tavington paused at the edge of the wood, listening; but there was no sign of life. He stole across the dirt road and up the gently sloping lawn toward the house, Lawrence just behind him. The pair paused next to an ancient oak, its wide trunk shielding them from view of the house.

"Are you ready, Lawrence?" Tavington looked over at the younger man, who nodded, eyes wide. Tavington knew from experience that, however rattled Lawrence appeared, he was an asset in battle—though of course he would never admit this to his underling. Just now, however, he was somewhat concerned at Lawrence's reticence. But there was nothing for it: now or never, as the saying went.

Steeling himself, Tavington ducked out from the shelter of the tree and crept up the lawn toward what seemed to be the front of the house (though how anyone was meant to discern front from back when the thing was shaped so oddly was beyond him). By the time he reached the front porch, the sound of masculine laughter could be heard. Tavington paused next to a column and pulled out his pistol, motioning Lawrence in front of him. His companion nodded, looking petrified, and grasped his own weapon tightly as he crept onto the porch and cautiously turned the handle of the front door.

Tavington was directly at his heels as Lawrence swung the door open and stepped through it, pistol trained ahead of him. Both men crouched low as they crossed the threshold, prepared for some counterattack—but none came. Tavington looked around the room into which they had entered, which was evidently meant for a grand foyer, though it hardly succeeded in this endeavour. But there was no time for such idle observations now; Lawrence was already approaching a room that opened off to the left, and Tavington stole along behind him as he eased the door open.

This room was small, almost claustrophobically so—evidently a study of sorts, and they wasted no time in passing through it. By now, Tavington had noticed that the house was strangely quiet, though the sound of conversation could still be heard, muffled. Indeed, as they crept into the next room, a high-ceilinged library, it seemed to Tavington that the sounds were coming from outside. He paused briefly to peer at a bookshelf, then snorted to himself—any man who kept a volume of _Oeuvres de Turgot_ in his home was hardly a force to be reckoned with.

Lawrence, however, was more impressed. "Oh, _Petrarch_!" he cried rapturously, reaching out toward a volume of that gentleman's poetry.

"_Quiet_," Tavington hissed, seizing Lawrence's forearm and quelling his excitement with a glare. He nodded toward the windows at the westward end of the library, through which several silhouetted figures could be seen. Tavington could make out at least three: Jefferson and Rutledge had company, then. He pulled out his pistol, motioning to Lawrence to do the same, and together, they crept across the library and into the next room.

Here, they paused together, backs pressed flat against the wall so as not to be seen through the windows, and Tavington turned to face Lawrence. "Are you ready, lieutenant?" Lawrence nodded, eyes wide. "Good. We must overpower them quickly—show them we have the upper hand and maintain it. Understood?" His companion nodded again, still silent.

Tavington inhaled sharply, then strode across the room and burst through the French doors onto the west lawn, pistol in his hand and Lawrence at his heels. But neither man was prepared for the sight that greeted them.

Beneath the slowly darkening dusky sky, two men were running at full speed away from where Tavington and Lawrence now stood. That in itself was not surprising to Tavington—he knew he cut a fearsome figure indeed—but before he could even start after them, they turned to run back toward the house. Only then did Tavington notice the tall, auburn-haired gentleman some meters to his right, smiling benevolently on the racers. With a growl, Tavington started toward him, still brandishing the pistol; but he was stopped in his tracks by a cry of acknowledgement that came from one of the men running toward the house.

"Lawrence!" drawled a horribly familiar voice. "Why, I thought I might never see you again!"

Tavington turned, horrified, as Rutledge, his race abruptly ended, rushed forward to meet Lawrence. To his credit, Lawrence did not lower his weapon, though he did look rather more pleased at re-encountering Rutledge than his commander would have hoped.

Meanwhile, both of the other men were moving slowly toward Tavington. He kept his pistol trained on Jefferson, though it was the other man who spoke first. "And I do believe, judging by what Mr. Rutledge has told us, that this must be the famous Colonel Tavington! Well, I'll be!" His breathing, shortened by the race he had just run, emphasized that atrocious accent Tavington so loathed in these colonials. "My name is Richard Henry Lee! Virginia is my home!"

He moved as though to seize Tavington's hand; the latter responded by cocking his pistol and pointing it toward Lee. "Stand further off, sir," he growled.

"Certainly!" said Lee, bowing and turning back toward where Lawrence stood. "And you, sir, must be—"

"Lieutenant Lawrence," finished Rutledge.

"_Captain_ Lawrence," said Lawrence, drawing himself up.

Rutledge clapped Lawrence on the shoulder, looking impressed. "Congratulations on your promotion, my dear fellow!"

"My name is Richard Henry Lee! Virginia is my home!" said Lee, wringing Lawrence's hand. Tavington noted with no small degree of displeasure that Lawrence had shifted the pistol to his left hand to accommodate this. But he would deal with Lawrence later. He turned his attention back toward the auburn-haired man on whom his weapon was still trained.

"My name is Jefferson, as you have no doubt surmised," said that gentleman amiably. "I must ask you, sir, to lower your weapon."

Tavington raised the pistol to point directly at Jefferson's chest. "Where is my wife, sir?" he asked through gritted teeth.

But it was Rutledge who answered. "Mrs. Tavington? Is she missing?"

Tavington whirled around to face him and leveled the pistol at his chest, moving away from Jefferson and keeping his back to the house. "Do not pretend to be coy, Rutledge! I know you had designs on her!"

Rutledge—and Lawrence—looked utterly shocked at this accusation. "I can assure you, my good sir, I did not! My affections have long been employed elsewhere."

"I've heard your wife is lovely!" piped in Lee. "Blonde and buxom—quite heavenly! Is she a Virginia lady?"

With a snarl, Tavington strode forward, grasped Lawrence by the shoulder, and pulled him back toward the house so that they were facing the three rebels, all of whom looked rather astonished, if not frightened. "_Lieutenant!_" growled Tavington, and Lawrence reluctantly transferred his pistol to his shooting hand once more, his eyes darting back and forth between the Colonel and Rutledge.

"I will only ask this once more." Tavington's voice had a tone that Lawrence, at least, recognized instantly as perilous. "_Where—is—my—wife?_"

This time, Jefferson answered. "I have not had the pleasure of making your wife's acquaintance," he said calmly, his voice deep and resonating. "Might I inquire what reason you have to believe she might be here?"

"_Enough!_" bellowed Tavington. But then a voice from behind him made him freeze.

"Drop your weapon, sir!" At the sound of this new voice, somewhat higher in pitch but just as authoritative as Jefferson's, Lawrence obediently dropped his gun. Tavington rolled his eyes; leave it to Lawrence to lose them the tactical advantage. He paused for a moment, contemplating his next move, but the sound of a pistol cocking directly behind him made him realize that the situation was untenable. Cursing Lawrence under his breath, he uncocked the gun and dropped it to the ground, then turned to face this new threat.

A small but regal-looking man sat astride a pony, his pistol coolly pointed at Tavington's head. Somewhat taken aback, Tavington failed to notice that Lee had picked his and Lawrence's pistols from the ground, and he had no time to strategize further before the small man dismounted and walked toward him. He stood a full head shorter than even Lawrence, and yet the way he carried himself belied his diminutive stature.

"James Madison," he said pleasantly, bowing to Tavington and Lawrence in turn. "You must be guests here?"

"Indeed," said Jefferson. "Well-met, Madison!"

Tavington, utterly nonplussed, turned back toward Jefferson, who smiled. "You are indeed my guests now, as we seem to have deprived you of your primary weapons. I trust, sir, that as you are a gentleman, I may feel secure leaving you in possession of your sword?"

Tavington nodded sullenly. He was outnumbered, and with as useless a companion as Lawrence, there was little chance that he could gain the upper hand.

"Yes, you needn't worry—I can vouch for both of these excellent gentlemen!" drawled Rutledge. Tavington felt a desire to strike him.

"Marvelous," said Jefferson, still smiling. "Now, this is usually reserved for the winner of the footraces, but as we find ourselves in somewhat unusual circumstances—perhaps you would care for some dried fruits?"

"Oh, _lecker!_" cried Lawrence, as Rutledge erupted into laughter.

"Do come inside," Jefferson said, his tone polite, and he bowed them all in through the French doors and out of the gathering Virginia dusk.

* * *

As Jefferson escorted them through the parlor and into the dining room, Tavington was obliged to stifle a grudging admiration for the house. True, it was small and unnecessarily decorative, but it had an inherent beauty that he was forced to recognize.

Jefferson motioned to them all to take seats around the dining table. "Please make yourselves comfortable. Dinner will be served shortly. I shall go fetch Lord John."

Lawrence voiced Tavington's question as Jefferson left the room. "Lord John?"

"John Grey, yes, Lord Governor of Virginia. I believe you've been missing him for some time?" Rutledge raised an eloquent eyebrow.

Tavington cursed under his breath. Cornwallis had had a conniption when Grey was taken from his gubernatorial mansion in Williamsburg several months before, but Tavington had dismissed his superior's concerns, assuming the man was a foppish figurehead. And to find him here—well, under other circumstances it might have been the stroke of luck he needed to return him to favor with the General, but as it now stood, it would simply be another tally against him: not only had he failed to capture or neutralize several members of the Constitutional Congress, but he was also not in a position to release the British governor from captivity.

Tavington roused himself from his reverie to find that he was being addressed by Lee (Rutledge and Lawrence now deep in conversation, unsurprisingly). "Colonel, I noted that you were somewhat distracted when I introduced myself earlier. My name is Richard Henry Lee; Virginia is my—"

"_Yes_," said Tavington through gritted teeth, "I am aware that you come from Virginia."

"Lovely!" Lee settled back into his seat, an unperturbed smile spreading across his face. "Now—unless I am much mistaken, you've met my nephew Harry! Lighthorse Harry Lee!"

This was too much for Tavington to bear. Standing abruptly, he crossed over to a side table and poured himself a large tumbler full of whiskey, draining it in one. He had no compunctions about his lack of social graces; in fact, he rather felt that he would be much more inclined to flout convention (perhaps by an assault on Lee's person) if he were forced to sit an instant longer without some distraction.

Perhaps fortunately, Jefferson entered the room at that moment, trailed by a gentleman whom Tavington instantly recognized as the governor: not by his face, as Tavington had never met the man, but by his manner of carriage. Far from foppish, Grey had a regality about him that Tavington instinctively respected, despite the scads of lace adorning his collar and cuffs (which was, Tavington presumed, the reason for Lawrence's admiring gasp).

"May I present Colonel Tavington and Captain Lawrence, Lord John?" Jefferson's politeness was maddening: here he had two Green Dragoons and His Majesty's colonial governor captive, and he was behaving as though they were all at a bloody garden party.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," said Grey, bowing to each in turn. Tavington nodded tersely, but Lawrence spluttered an incoherent politeness, gazing admiringly at the Governor.

Lee stood, clapping his hands together. "Right, gentlemen, let's get on with it, shall we?" He nodded toward the now-empty glass in Tavington's hand. "A toast," he continued, ambling to the side table and pouring the amber liquid into a glass for each man. "To good health—may we all live long and happily!"

Tavington, who would very much have appreciated a toast to instantaneous death in that moment, swallowed the whiskey down nonetheless. He had a feeling that he would need it as the evening progressed.

* * *

By the end of the meal, Tavington was seriously contemplating going back on his word to Jefferson, withdrawing his sword, and skewering the lot of them. Between that damned Lee fellow, his nemesis Rutledge, and _Captain_ Lawrence (whose title Tavington was forced to observe due to the frequency with which it was uttered), he wasn't even sure whom he would attack first, given the chance. And Madison, Jefferson, and Grey were hardly better; though they were rather less ridiculous, this was far from what Tavington had hoped. In fact, they would have been rather pleasant company in other circumstances (though it was beyond him to imagine what those circumstances might be): polite, reserved—in a word, _gentlemen_, a trait for which Tavington had an inherent appreciation.

But he was far from being in a humor to enjoy himself, however the other "prisoners" behaved. Instead of responding to either group's attempts to engage him in conversation, Tavington chose to continue to gulp down more of the Virginia gentleman's fine whiskey. And so it was that, when the conversation turned to less conventional topics than the weather, shooting, or the lace of Lord John Grey's cuffs, Tavington responded rather less violently than he might normally have done.

"My dear Lawrence—do tell me more about this letter that led you to Monticello!" Rutledge's face was ruddy with the wine he had consumed, and he seemed to drawl more than was usual, even for him.

"Well, the Colonel approached me with your note to Mr. Lee afternoon during my trombone lesson with the Baron—the Baron von Pilsner, you know," Lawrence added importantly, addressing himself to the rest of the table.

"_Prussian_," added Rutledge conspiratorially, and Lee nodded his understanding.

"I read the letter, and there was a line in which you seemed—well, according to Colonel Tavington, anyway—to be referring to me!" Lawrence finished, looking both proud and somewhat self-conscious.

"To you? My dear fellow, I would have done no such thing! I would not wish to endanger your reputation, should my missive fall into enemy hands—which, as you recall, it in fact _did_," said Rutledge (too smugly, Tavington thought).

"But—but it said something about a lieutenant who had been of use to you in your time of need, and I thought—" Lawrence looked hurt.

"Ah!" said Rutledge. "As it happens, Lawrence, you are not the _only_ lieutenant to have given me support when I was in sore need of a friend. When I returned home from _Oxford_—" here he paused to look pointedly at Tavington, who just as pointedly ignored him— "I sailed into New York and was much thrown together with a young lieutenant by the name of Alexander Hamilton."

Tavington was utterly astonished by the reaction this name, previously unknown to him, solicited from the audience around the table: Lawrence's jaw dropped open; Lee cried, "Well, I'll be!"; John Grey looked determinedly at the ceiling; and Madison nudged the hitherto unflappable Jefferson, who grasped the handle of his knife very tightly, his strong jaw set. Tavington considered for a moment, then decided that, if his dinner companions were so interested in this Hamilton, he had no desire whatever to learn more about the fellow. Silently, he took another sip of whiskey and waited for Rutledge's dramatic pause to end.

"As I was saying, we became quite close—and at any rate, my note was merely meant to remind dear Richard Henry that young Alexander might be just the fellow he should pursue!" Rutledge smiled patronizingly on his audience, most of whom still appeared to be slightly shocked. An uncomfortable stillness descended upon the table.

After another moment, Richard Henry Lee broke the silence. "Colonel Tavington! Do tell me about this enchanting wife of yours. Have you really lost her? I call that foolish of you—yes, quite silly!" He laughed loudly, completely oblivious to the look of murderous rage on Tavington's face.

"Mrs. Tavington has not been seen since—since January," said Lawrence nervously, risking a glance over at Tavington. "We—we had hoped that she would be here."

Rutledge nodded superciliously. "Yes, I can see why. She was always quite an admirer of yours," he said to Jefferson, who looked quite surprised to be brought into the conversation.

"I must confess that I fail to understand why that would be, as I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Tavington." Jefferson's tone was measured, as always, but he seemed genuinely perplexed.

Rutledge smirked. "Let us simply say that she—admired your talent with a quill."

This was entirely too much for Tavington. Even before the laughter had subsided, his sword was at Rutledge's throat. The room stilled. Lawrence gave a single frightened squeak.

"Colonel—" began Jefferson calmly, but Tavington interrupted him.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but this coward has insulted me one time too many. Rutledge—outside!" barked Tavington.

"Colonel, kindly remember that you are in my home." There was a veiled threat in Jefferson's voice that Tavington, even in his somewhat inebriated state, was forced to acknowledge. "I must ask you not to threaten my guests with bodily harm."

Tavington hesitated for a moment and then, seething, shoved his sword back into its sheath and dropped back into his chair. "Now, unless I am much mistaken, I believe that we are all somewhat wearied with the events of this evening. Shall we retire?"

The suggestion was met with a general murmur of assent by all but Tavington, who had no intention of allowing himself to become a prisoner in a place such as this. As the rest of the company filed out of the room, he waited behind. "Jefferson. A word?"

Jefferson paused, turning back to face Tavington. "How may I be of service, Colonel?"

"I must inform you, sir, that I have no intention of being made a captive in your home. It is your prerogative, of course, to have myself and my lieu—Captain Lawrence transported to a military prison, but I will not consent to stay here."

Jefferson raised an eyebrow. "Were you under the impression that I considered you to be my captive, Colonel?"

Tavington, who disliked intensely being made to feel stupid, was beginning to feel that way. Fortunately, he was not obliged to speak before Jefferson continued. "Common courtesy dictates that I offer visitors to my home a meal and a place to rest their heads before they continue their journey. I have no intention of attempting to restrain you beyond this evening—and I must confess myself surprised that you believed I was foolhardy enough to do so." He eyed Tavington appraisingly.

"Indeed," said Tavington. He was now rather nimtopsical and felt that he should like nothing more than a bed onto which to collapse.

Jefferson eyed him appraisingly. "Well. Colonel, if you will accept it, the second guest bedroom at the top of the staircase is yours."

"Thank you," muttered Tavington, and made his way up the stairs without a backward glance. As he gave into sleep, his last conscious thought was an (unsuccessful) attempt to shove away a grudging admiration for Jefferson.

* * *

When he awoke the next morning and progressed downstairs to the breakfast room, most of the party was gathered. Lawrence appeared several moments later, followed by Rutledge, both looking somewhat rumpled. As he did himself, Tavington realized—he was unshaven and still clad in his muddied riding breeches, while Jefferson and Lord John Grey looked almost ridiculously well-groomed.

"I trust you all slept well?" Jefferson inquired, receiving general nods of assent as all present continued to tuck into their breakfasts.

"Your featherbeds are quite extraordinary!" said Lawrence.

Jefferson nodded courteously. "Thank you, Captain." He turned to Tavington. "When will you and Lord John be leaving, Colonel?"

"Lord John?" Tavington was nonplussed.

"Yes, it's time I left," said Grey, straightening a cuff as Lawrence watched enviously. "I believe General Lord Cornwallis has been somewhat anxious as to my wellbeing, has he not?"

Tavington could do naught but nod. Any respect he had felt for Jefferson the previous evening had evaporated: only a fool would allow such a valuable prisoner to escape, if the situation could even properly be called an escape at all.

"I shall see you off, at least part of the way—I have business in Richmond! Must get there quickly!" said Lee with a guffaw.

"We are in no hurry," said Tavington quickly. In fact, it would be best if they returned to camp as soon as possible, but he had no intention of riding with Lee for a moment longer than was necessary.

"Ah, I shall be left bereft of guests! But Madison, you and Rutledge aren't leaving just yet?" Jefferson looked to the smaller man, who shook his head.

"No, we're not due back in Congress until next week." This innocuous statement had the effect of reminding Tavington just who these hateful rebels were, and he pushed back his chair to stand abruptly.

"I think we must be off, then," he said, determined to spend no more time in the presence of traitors.

Lee nodded. "And I—but I'll return triumphantly!" He laughed merrily.

Jefferson stood. "Well—I shall see you off. I took the liberty of having your horses stabled yesterday evening," he said to Lawrence, to the latter's obvious gratitude.

"Thank you," said Tavington gruffly as they walked out onto the front porch where the groomsmen waited.

Jefferson held out a large hand and Tavington, who did not see how to escape the gesture, reached out to shake it briefly. "May we meet again under more auspicious circumstances." Tavington only grunted, turning away to mount his horse and leaving Lord John Grey to bid farewell to Jefferson.

"Oh, _Edward_!" cried Lawrence, wringing Rutledge's hand effusively.

"We will meet again," said Rutledge airily, waving a monogrammed handkerchief with his free hand.

"And perhaps you will have been promoted again by then, if you're lucky?" chuckled Lee, clapping Lawrence on the back. "You know what they say: a man of great parts is sure greatly to rise! And now—off I go—hastily!" He jogged toward his horse and vaulting onto its back from behind.

Lawrence and Rutledge applauded in awe. Tavington rolled his eyes as Lee, with a mighty shout, wheeled his horse about and galloped down the dirt path away from the house.

Grey mounted his own horse rather more conventionally, and Lawrence, after a moment of decision, followed his lead. Only then did Madison, hitherto nearly silent, approach them. "Your pistols, gentlemen," he said, holding the guns out to Lawrence and Tavington.

In his haste to leave this awful place, Tavington had forgotten about his pistol—but that was hardly surprising, given the general chaos and all of Lawrence's ludicrousness. No matter: they could be gone now. He nodded at Madison, pointedly not looking at Rutledge or Jefferson, and turned his horse away from the house without another word, followed by Grey.

Behind them, Lawrence sniffled as they began the long descent down the mountain. "How can you _bear_ to leave this place?" he said theatrically, dabbing his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. "I don't believe I've ever witnessed a house so happily situated. And with such exquisite dried fruits!"

* * *

**With many thanks to the author of Lord John for (tacitly) letting me borrow him—and many more thanks to all of you for your reviews, support, and reminders!! I know I've said this before, but you all are fantastic, and every review makes me that much more likely to keep writing…and soon, I promise, there will be a reunion. Of some kind.**

**Und ähnlich wie immer, ich muss mich bei TTT bedanken. For bothering me continually about writing, if nothing else. Also—Perfect! Sank you!**


	9. Ooh Baby Don't You Know I Suffer

_January 2010_

It was the end of January, and I had heard nothing from Bligh since his mysterious promise to be in touch. To tell the truth, I had pretty much given up—on everything. London in January can hardly be called pleasant, and the long, rainy nights only added to my melancholy. Classes had just started up again, but not even Britain's 18th-century colonial history interested me now.

"_Why_ hasn't he contacted me?" I asked Paris for the millionth time as I paced up and down my tiny room. "What's he waiting for? What if I never hear from him? How am I going to—"

"Jess. _Relax_." Paris's voice was as soothing as ever—which was actually remarkable, given how many times I'd subjected him to this exact conversation. "If it's supposed to happen, it will happen."

"But what if it's not?" I couldn't disguise the fear in my voice; the idea of living my entire life without seeing William again was unbearable.

"It _is_, though. Just give it time. Before you know it, you'll be back with William. And I'll never see you again."

I didn't know what to say. Paris and I always avoided talking about that particular aspect of my plan. "Paris—"

"It's okay, Jess. You can't control who you fall in love with. It's just—hard for the rest of us."

It took all of my self control not to let the tears spilling out of my eyes to affect my voice too much. "Even _if_ I get back—Paris, I'll never, ever forget you. You know that."

We sat in silence for a moment, separated by an ocean and two centuries. Could I really do this? Was the possibility of finding William alive and well enough to justify my leaving my entire life behind—forever?

Paris cleared his throat, bringing me back to the present. "How are your friends there? Oleg and them?"

"Um," I said. I was hesitant to admit it, but I'd been avoiding my new friends since I'd met up with Bligh. Oleg kept trying to get me out of my flat, but I was so focused on finding Bligh again that I had pretty much abandoned any sort of social life. Besides, what was the point if I was going to be leaving anyway? It was better to avoid any sort of substantive relationships with people here.

"Jess," said Paris, a warning note in his voice. "When was the last time you saw them?"

"A while ago," I said, trying to sound upbeat. "But I've been really busy with school—"

"Liar," said Paris.

"Well, at least I _have_ friends," I said defensively. "The only person _you_ ever talk about is Bill—"

"I have friends!" said Paris indignantly. I couldn't help but giggle at the outrage in his tone, and after a moment, he laughed too.

"I should go," I said, sighing. "It's late here, and I have an early lecture tomorrow. Post-War American Fiction."

He made a derisive noise. "Well, have fun with that."

"Yeah," I said. "And Paris—thanks."

"That's what I'm here for," he said lightly. "Just remember—you don't have to fear tomorrow."

I contemplated this for a moment. Paris was always making oddly sagacious comments, and this one was as true as any. "I'll remember. Good night."

"Sleep tight," he responded. "Let me know if you hear anything from Bligh."

"That's likely," I said sarcastically. Paris was still chuckling as I hung up.

I got up from my bed, set the phone down on my desk, and paused next to the window, staring unseeingly into the darkness. This whole thing just felt wrong—I _knew_ I didn't belong here. I was supposed to be with William, no matter what. But Paris was right—I couldn't force fate to move faster. I'd just have to be patient, even if that was next to impossible.

I sighed and shook my head, trying to rid myself of the negative thoughts. Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would make me feel better. I grabbed the kettle and headed into the bathroom to fill it up with water. As I turned on the faucet, I thought I heard my phone buzz. Odd—maybe Paris was calling me back?

Setting the kettle down, I leapt over to the desk to snatch up my phone. No, it hadn't been ringing—just a text. Probably Oleg, trying again to convince me to go to that techno club a few blocks away that he and his friends frequented. I was already composing a valid-sounding excuse in the back of my brain, so it took me a moment to register that the text was from a number I didn't recognize, and what's more, that it wasn't an invitation to go somewhere. Instead, it was a command.

"BBC RADIO 1. 22:02."

What was that supposed to mean? And who was it from? It couldn't be Bligh—he had said he didn't believe in phones. Still, I immediately dialed the number back, but there was no answer, and no voicemail. I thought for a moment…22:02 had to be the time, and it was 9:59 now, according to my computer. The message was probably just some sort of ad, but it couldn't hurt to follow the instructions.

A moment later, I had the Radio 1 website up on my computer. I clicked on "Listen Live" and was rewarded with a Strokes song I recognized. I found myself humming along as I poured the now boiling water into my mug; if nothing else, at least I got to listen to a song I hadn't heard in a while.

I couldn't help but feel slightly excited as the clock on my computer clicked to 10:02, though I knew it was probably just the BBC's attempt to get me excited about the new Take That single or something. "That was the Strokes with 'Someday'—never gets old, does it? Thank you all for your emails and texts—keep them coming! Just got this one from a lieutenant in Inverness—he says 'To the colonel's lady, to ring in the new month.' Not sure what that means—we've still got a couple of days left in January—but the song's too good to pass up. Don't be shy, just let it out and dance. Gotta be done!"

It was fortunate that I had been standing in front of my bed, because otherwise I would have just fallen down onto the floor. As it was, some of my tea sloshed out, scalding my hand—but I couldn't have cared less. How had Bligh known that they would play his song? As the DJ finished talking, I leaned forward, not wanting to miss a second of the song—there had to be some sort of hidden message. But whatever I'd been expecting, I wasn't prepared for what I heard next.

"_When I come to the club, step aside…"_ I knew this song—Bligh had requested "London Bridge"?! Why would he have dedicated this song to me? And what did that mean, 'to ring in the new month'? It was only January 28th now…

"_My London London London wanna go down…"_ crooned Fergie—and it hit me. Bligh wanted me to meet him at London Bridge! But when? 'To ring in the new month'…

"February 1st!" I said aloud, thrilled with my discovery. London Bridge on the cusp of the new month! He must have found a portal—otherwise, why would he want me to meet him? And soon, I would see William again… Ecstatic, I set down my tea and began to dance around my room, not caring that any passersby on the street would see me. Three days—three days and everything would fall into place, I just knew it.

I was still smiling when the song ended. I contemplated calling Paris back, but then I decided that would have to wait until I had calmed down. For now, I had to get everything in order. My earlier melancholy had evaporated completely; all I could think of now was William.

Three days…

* * *

By the time January 31st rolled around, I was exhausted. I had barely slept since the night I got the message from Bligh, and I'd been on an emotional rollercoaster: I'd go from a state of nervous excitement about seeing William again to abrupt depression at the thought of my parents, and back again. Paris was doing his best to keep me stable, but I was just too volatile.

I wasn't quite ready to leave, however excited I was. There were some things I needed to take care of—namely, how to tell my parents I'd never talk to them again—and if Bligh tried to convince me to go back tonight, I was fully prepared to tell him no. I knew it had to be soon, though, or I'd lose my nerve. In my bad moments, the only thing that kept me grounded was my memories of William.

I left my flat at 11:30 at night on January 31st; London Bridge wasn't far, but I wanted to be sure to give myself enough time to get there before midnight. As I started walking, I contemplated calling Paris, but I knew it was a bad idea: voicing my fears would only get me more worked up, and I had to stay calm. I wrapped my scarf more tightly around my chin and set forward into the windy London night.

It wasn't until I reached the first entrance to the London Bridge tube station that I recognized the first flaw in my plan: was Bligh intending to meet me at the station? If so, how could I possibly find him? The station had probably a dozen entrances and two lines; finding Bligh in there would be something of a miracle. I looked at my watch. 11:52; I had 8 minutes to make a decision.

I tried to put myself in Bligh's shoes—where would he want to meet? If he was so concerned about secrecy, it seemed like the station would be ideal: crowds of people to cover any conversation we might have. But this late on a Sunday night, the station would probably be all but deserted. Resolutely, I turned and headed north toward the bridge. I figured if I just stood on the sidewalk halfway along the bridge, I'd at least be visible if Bligh were looking for me—and anyway, it seemed like spies in movies were always meeting in the middle of bridges, which would probably appeal to Bligh.

I was in position when the bells began tolling midnight, but there was no sign of Bligh. I shivered and turned to look out at the Thames. The view of Tower Bridge, glowing in the moonlit darkness, was spectacular, and I was totally lost in thought as I stared at it.

"Oh snap," said a low voice from immediately behind me. I would have screamed, but a large hand clapped itself over my mouth before I had the opportunity. I wrestled myself free and stepped back, glaring at Bligh, who pressed a finger to his lips.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" I hissed. "You don't contact me for weeks, and then you come up with the most ridiculously complex way of arranging a meeting—how did you do that? And how did you get my phone number, anyway? And _who_ sneaks up on someone in the middle of the night and whispers 'Oh snap' in their ear?!"

"I figured you'd recognize it. You know, from the song," said Bligh gruffly, ignoring my other questions. "Come on, we don't have much time."

My stomach immediately clenched itself into the familiar knot as I turned to follow him toward the north side of the river. "Are we going back tonight?"

Bligh spared me a withering glance over his shoulder. "Hardly. Do you really think we're prepared?"

"How should I know?" I growled. "It's not like you've _told_ me anything. So what are we doing, then?"

"Meeting," said Bligh, pulling an elaborate, clunky pocket watch out of the pocket of his jeans. He glanced down at it and quickened his pace so that I was actually jogging to keep up with him.

"Meeting with who?" I said loudly. As expected, I got no response, so I decided just to keep firing questions at him as we reached the opposite end of the bridge. "What have you been doing? Why haven't you contacted me? How did you know the DJ on the radio would play that song? Why didn't you just call me if you had my number? How did you _get_ my number? Didn't you say you didn't believe in phones? Who are we meeting with? Have you found a portal?"

He remained silent throughout my interrogation, and my voice increased in pitch and volume as we crossed Cannon Street, but at the last question he turned around and hissed threateningly, "_Quiet!_"

We came to an abrupt halt in front of a storefront labeled "House of Fraser." Bligh stepped into the shadows of the doorway, pulling me along with him, and consulted his pocket watch once more; I crossed my arms, fuming silently. I had played his stupid games and figured out his unnecessarily complex hints, but he had no right to deny me information like this, and I wasn't going to just let him manipulate me.

Just as I opened my mouth to give Bligh a piece of my mind, a figure rounded the corner and came to a halt directly in front of us. Even in the dark, the stranger's maroon-striped rugby shirt made quite an impression, and I wondered where Bligh had dug this guy up, and why it was so important that we meet him.

"Mrs. Tavington!" said the stranger loudly. Startled, I raised my eyes from the shocking pink of his shirt to look at him more closely—and nearly had a heart attack.

Bligh stepped out of the doorway and extended his hand to the stranger. "Milner," he said gruffly, openly staring at the other man's shirt.

"Sir Henry?" I gasped, my heart still thumping from the shock.

"At your service, madam," said that gentleman, bowing awkwardly.

"What are you—_doing_ here?" I was utterly nonplussed, not least because he looked so completely different without his powdered wig and crisp naval uniform.

"Well, I've been serving at various ports of call—still a seaman at heart, you know!" he said, clearly proud of himself.

"No, I mean—what are you doing—_now_?"

"What, Bligh hasn't told you?" Sir Henry shot an incredulous glance at Bligh, who folded his arms and glared straight back, reminding me of the odd animosity that had always existed between the lieutenant and ensign I had known.

"No, he hasn't told me a damn thing," I said, glowering at Bligh.

Sir Henry looked vaguely shocked at my language for a moment, then cleared his throat conspicuously and began to speak. "I'm a traveler too, like Bli—I mean Lieutena—that is, Glen here."

"And how did you—you know—start _traveling_?" I felt vaguely lightheaded, like all of this was a strange dream.

"Well, I—" He cut himself off after a glance at Bligh. "I happened to stumble into it, I suppose."

I was convinced there was some subtext to this conversation that I was missing. "How do you guys know each other?"

"We—er—crossed paths several times," said Sir Henry, glancing again at Bligh—rather nervously, I thought.

"Enough," said Bligh, stepping forward authoritatively. "Have you found it?"

Sir Henry nodded. "Southwark, just as you suggested."

Bligh rubbed his chin with a large hand. "And Sir Harry?"

"He knows, of course," said Sir Henry, nodding again. I didn't even bother to ask who Sir Harry was—some relation of Sir Henry's, I could only assume, but before I had time to puzzle over this further, he turned back to me. "I'm accompanying you back, you see."

"But—but—when?" I spluttered. Somehow, in trying to follow this conversation, I'd forgotten that our departure was imminent. "Where are we—?"

"Can't tell you that, eh," said Bligh gruffly.

"But how am I supposed to—" I began, then sighed, knowing it was useless. Suddenly I just wanted to get home and call Paris. "Right. Are we done here?"

Both men nodded. "I'm getting a cab, then. You'll call me?"

"Certainly," said Sir Henry.

"Great," I said testily, turning toward the street. I spotted a cab headed down the block and walked to the curb, wanting nothing more than to get away from this absurdity and think.

"Goodbye," I said, as the taxi pulled up to the curb.

"Bye! Cheers! Bye!" said Sir Henry cheerfully. Bligh merely nodded stoically at me, then resumed his staring at Sir Henry's shirt.

I rolled my eyes. I'd never understood the tacit animosity between those two, but it made a bit more sense to me now—and it _was_ nice to know that some things just didn't change.

* * *

A week and a half later, I was feeling very sorry for myself. Valentine's Day was approaching, I was alone, the weather was crap—and of course I'd heard nothing at all from Bligh or Sir Henry.

"This just _sucks_," I whined to Paris, cramming the last of a Cadbury bar into my mouth.

"Cheer up," he said, somewhat unsympathetically. "You're not Bella in _Twilight_."

"Wait—I totally _am_!" I gasped. "That makes so much sense! I mean—think about it. Bella has this intense emotional connection with her soulmate, but they can't be together."

"Because there's a constant threat he's going to kill her," said Paris drily. "Do you have that feeling with William?"

"Obviously not," I said, rolling my eyes. "But it's a metaphor! I mean, in our case, it's the time factor that's an issue, not—"

"—the desire to suck your blood," he said. "I get it. But who's your werewolf?"

"Hmm," I said, thinking. "I guess I don't really have one. Unless it's you."

Paris laughed. "I think Bill would have something to say about that, Jess."

"Well, not _literally_. But I do kind of have to choose between you and William—I can't have you both in my life."

"If I get to have a body like Taylor Lautner's, I won't complain," said Paris lightly.

I sighed, trying not to think about the inevitability of my situation. "Do you—oh, hang on a sec, my phone's beeping," I said, looking down at the screen. "I don't know who it is. Can I call you back?"

"Aye," said Paris, and hung up.

"Hello?" I said.

"Glen here," said a familiar voice. "Courage."

"What?" I had trouble believing that Bligh would call me just to tell me to have courage. "Why can't you just tell me what—?"

"The Black Horse. Great Dover Street."

"Oh—you mean the pub down the street from me," I said, confused. "Okay. When?"

"8 o'clock. Don't be late." This sounded very much like a dismissal to me, so I jumped in quickly.

"Tonight?"

"Second day of Lupercalia."

"When's that?" I said, totally nonplussed. "And _what_ is that?"

He ignored my second question. "Sunday."

Three days from now. "So did Sir Henry find a port—"

"Line's not secure," he interrupted loudly. "Must go."

"Wait! Just tell me—are we—when are we—you know, leaving?"

"Sunday," repeated Bligh, sounding very much as though he considered my powers of deduction substandard.

"We're leaving _Sunday_?!" I gasped. "But you—how will I—are we—?"

"8 o'clock." The line went dead, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

It was only then that I realized Sunday was Valentine's Day.

* * *

**It has been almost ten months since I last provided you with an update in the saga of the Colonel and his Lady, and for this I sincerely apologize. To those of you who left reviews, wrote me encouraging messages, or even just read the story: thank you eversomuch!!! I am back, at least for now **

**Special thanks to TTT for her ongoing reminders that I really should get back to writing, and also for providing the Barouche Box for fact-finding missions. I owe you a birthday present.**

**You shall hear from me soon—I promise!—and in the meantime, I would **_**love**_** to hear from you!!!**

**~LLLady Southwark**


	10. I Hate These Blurred Lines

**It's been a while. Three years, as a matter of fact (which is absolutely astonishing to me). So first of all, thank you for bearing with me, or for giving this story a chance for the first time. The past couple of years have wrought their changes for me, as I am sure they have done for you—so really, if you are back to read more, I must offer you my sincere thanks. (And I must also applaud Cherilee for suggesting in her review that I fell into a rift in time, because that is the closest thing to the truth and the only excuse I have for abandoning Kat and her quest for so long.)**

**And so, while I can't offer you a reunion **_**just **_**yet, I can promise that I will make it happen someday. In the meantime, if you're looking for a bit of insight into what everyone's been up to, you might take a look at my completely nonsensical sort-of-crossover "Emergency Handshake" (though I am not exaggerating when I call it nonsensical).**

**And now all that's left is for me to thank you one more time for reading, and especially for every review and message that made me feel like this was a story worth finishing. So—thank you, and enjoy!**

**- LLLady Southwark**

**PS. Thank you as ever to TTT, beta extraordinaire and authority on all matters military.**

* * *

_October 1781_

Colonel Tavington was most seriously displeased—more displeased, in fact, than he could remember being, which was saying something, given the past two years.

"Well, damn," said General Cornwallis, voicing the predominant thought of everyone in the tent. He sighed heavily and sank onto a chair, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

"Quite," said General O'Hara. He also sighed heavily. "Nothing to be done for it, Milord. You had no choice. Isn't that right, Tavington?"

Under his superior's glare, Tavington had no choice but to reply. "Quite right, Milord," he growled.

Cornwallis sighed again. "Very brave of Captain Lawrence to volunteer, wasn't it?" Looking utterly defeated, he leaned back and ate a lemon drop.

"Very," said Tavington, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes were trained on tent's opening, through which Lawrence could be seen quite clearly in the early morning light, marching along behind a drummer and waving a white handkerchief. It was, Tavington thought, a role to which Lawrence was uniquely suited, given his affinity for handkerchiefs and his propensity for taking the easy way out. He had positively insisted on being the one to surrender, once news of Cornwallis's decision spread among the officers at Yorktown.

"I simply can't believe it," said Cornwallis, absentmindedly observing Lawrence's progress across the field. "All these years—all of these _lives_—all for naught."

"You have performed honorably, Milord. No man could have done more," said O'Hara. Tavington snorted inwardly; fewer balls and more musket training would certainly not have hurt the chances of His Majesty's army.

Feeling O'Hara's piercing gaze alight on him, Tavington nodded stiffly. "Indeed," he said, endeavoring to keep any hint of malice out of his voice. It would not do to have O'Hara further eroding Cornwallis's opinion of him now, not when Tavington's career _post bellum_ would be so heavily contingent upon the General's good opinion. Most unfortunately, O'Hara had never been enthralled with Tavington the way Cornwallis was; perhaps this was because O'Hara had not had the pleasure of getting to know Tavington's former wife, he thought with malice. Despite her manifold negative qualities, she had been useful in advancing his professional goals, given that the entirety of His Majesty's army seemed positively enthralled with her. Tavington could feel his blood begin to pound as he thought of Kat, something he tried to do as rarely as possible. Abruptly, he realized that his hands had curled into fists and that he was now glaring outright at O'Hara, whose eyebrows had lowered dangerously. He breathed in deeply and banished any thoughts of that traitorous woman from his mind, rearranging his features into what he hoped was a sufficiently innocent and respectful expression to throw O'Hara off the scent.

Frowning, O'Hara turned back toward the front of the tent, through which Lawrence was now but an indistinguishable red-coated figure in the distance—though, Tavington noted, he was still waving his handkerchief with utmost enthusiasm. As they watched, a line of blue coats stepped up to meet him, surrounding him. The handkerchief subsided with a final flourish.

Cornwallis sighed again. "What next?" he said hopelessly, the weariness in his voice making him sound like an old man.

For once, Tavington had no retort, inward or otherwise.

* * *

Some hours later, Tavington sat alone at the small writing desk in his tent. Cornwallis had finally dismissed his officers, requesting to be left alone while the camp awaited Lawrence's return. It wasn't often that Tavington could empathize with Cornwallis, but he did in this instance feel a similar need for solitude. Not because of the surrender, of course: Tavington knew for a certainty that, had he been in Cornwallis's position, the outcome of the Yorktown campaign would have been quite different. The refusal of anyone in His Majesty's army to take risks, to make logical sacrifices for a disproportionate gain, was simply maddening. Once back in London, Tavington vowed, he _would_ be in a position of greater power, able to make decisions for himself rather than having to cede to those who were weaker, more cowardly—

"Colonel Tavington!" came an all too familiar voice from directly outside the tent. "Colonel, might I be permitted to enter your opening?" The flap of the tent shook as a hand grasped it excitedly.

With a growl, Tavington rose from his chair and marched over to the tent's entrance, thrusting the flap aside and nearly throwing Lawrence, who was clutching it tightly, to the ground. "What do you want, Captain?"

Lawrence was bouncing on the balls of his feet, obviously brimming with excitement, which Tavington found absolutely inexplicable given the unendurable shame of the day's events—but then, Tavington often found Lawrence inexplicable. "You'll never guess whom I met! In the American camp!"

Tavington strongly considered slapping Lawrence for referring to their enemies as anything but traitors, but he knew the yob well enough to know that there was no stopping Lawrence from making his point when he was thus enthused. Best simply to get it over with. "Whom did you meet?" he growled, stepping closer to Lawrence to better tower threateningly over the other man.

Lawrence seemed impervious to this. "Alexander Hamilton!" he cried rapturously, clapping his hands in his excitement. "Do you remember? When we were at Mr. Jefferson's lovely home, Monticello? _Everyone_ was in such raptures about him! And of course, Edward has always spoken so warmly of him, you know, so I simply _knew_ he would be a capital fellow, but I never _dreamed_ of having the opportunity to meet him! He's very popular, you know—there were _crowds _of men around him, and I had to beat them off just to have a civil conversation! And then they blindfolded me! It was all very exciting!" With a flourish, Lawrence pulled a handkerchief out of his coat and waved it in the colonel's face. "Alexander even gave me his handkerchief, as he felt very guilty for depriving me of mine—you know, the one I surrendered with! He embroidered his initials on it _himself_!"

Tavington's brows had dipped increasingly lower throughout this speech, and by its conclusion, his hand was also firmly wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "_Captain_ Lawrence," he snarled, "I shall leave aside for a moment your obvious willingness to fraternize with the enemy, which I assure you will not go unnoticed by General Lord Cornwallis. But I must ask you why you have seen fit to trouble me with your traitorous raptures about the man who is largely responsible for the final defeat of His Majesty's army!" Tavington abandoned any attempt to control himself, his voice rising with each syllable until he was positively shouting. A bevy of privates standing nearby turned to see what the commotion was about and then, thinking better of it, quickly turned and scurried away.

But Lawrence was still oblivious. "He's invited us all to dinner after the ceremony of surrender! All the officers! We're to wear our finest coats, and he intimated that there might be _dancing_ afterward!"

Tavington was now livid. "Captain! Do you mean to say that you are excited at the prospect of dining with the rebel scum who have cost us our colonies and quite possibly our careers? I have had enough of this, Captain Lawrence!" He stepped closer, half unsheathing his sword in his fury.

"Had enough of what?" demanded Cornwallis, appearing around a corner. He took in the scene, frowning ominously at Tavington's flushed and angry face. "Is there a problem, Colonel Tavington?"

"Milord!" barked Tavington, pointing at Lawrence. "Lawrence is enthusiastically suggesting that we dine with the traitors!"

"Well, of course he is," boomed Cornwallis, now just as obviously annoyed with Tavington as he seemed to be pleased with Lawrence. "Captain Lawrence has done us a great service this day. He bravely volunteered to undertake the arduous task of surrender"—here Lawrence puffed up his chest and flourished the handkerchief once more, while Tavington snorted in disbelief at the description of surrender as brave—"and he is to be treated with respect! Particularly given that, upon our return to London, I shall see that he is promoted to Major!"

Lawrence clapped his hands, looking positively elated. Tavington could bear it no longer. "Milord, this is ridiculous!" he burst out.

Cornwallis's visage turned visibly redder. "Ridiculous, is it, Tavington? You are treading on dangerous ground, sir! You have questioned my leadership, and you have certainly insulted Captain Lawrence, who has been nothing but an asset to you and the Dragoons! If you continue to find yourself unable to keep your emotions in check, you shall also find yourself without a commission after all this is over!"

Tavington breathed in deeply before responding. It would not do to lose control again in front of Cornwallis. "Milord," he began, every bit of his concentration focused on keeping his voice steady and his temper in check, "I apologize. I would never dream of intentionally casting doubt upon Your Lordship's leadership or decisions." Cornwallis looked unimpressed by Tavington's effort at self-control, so he decided to try another approach. He took another deep breath and adopted what he hoped was a believably emotional tone. "As you know, the loss of my wife was a great blow to me. Now, given the uncertainty of my future, I find myself—struggling—to face the renewed prospect of a future without her."

To his relief, Cornwallis—and Lawrence—were now both looking deeply distressed. "My dear Colonel," said Cornwallis, his voice catching slightly, "Mrs. Tavington's loss is felt deeply, by us all."

Tavington nodded, dropping his gaze to the ground to conceal a smirk. "Thank you, Milord." He waited for the General's next pronouncement, but after a moment, the only sound that could be heard was Lawrence's faint sniffling. Tavington gathered himself and looked back at the General, who was now patting Lawrence on the back, gazing wistfully into the distance. Unable to stop himself, Tavington sighed loudly.

This seemed to bring Cornwallis back to the present moment. He harrumphed loudly and turned back to Tavington. "Yes, we all miss Mrs. Tavington greatly. But you must learn to carry on without her, Colonel." Lawrence blew his nose loudly into the handkerchief. Tavington restrained the automatic tendency to roll his eyes. "I'm sure her loss is felt most by you at social gatherings," continued Cornwallis, "but you must learn to move in society alone. Company is the only way to allay your grief."

"Milord," murmured Tavington in as polite a tone as he could manage.

"Which is why you must attend the officers' dinner," the General finished, rather loudly.

Tavington gaped at him. "Surely, Milord, my—reentry into society can wait until our return to London?"

"Nonsense!" boomed Cornwallis, a gleam in his eye. "You shall attend the dinner in my stead. It will provide an excellent opportunity for hierarchical interpenetration."

"Milord?" choked Tavington.

"I'm feeling very ill," Cornwallis said, punctuating the sentence with a cough. "Yes, far too ill to attend. You shall represent His Majesty's army on my behalf, Tavington. Remember, our future relations with the—er—United States of America depend upon it." He grimaced, as though the words tasted bad.

Unusually, Tavington found himself at a complete loss for words. Lawrence, however, had no such difficulties. "Oh, it will be such _fun_, Colonel!" he cried, his earlier tears forgotten in his enthusiasm for high treason. "I simply can't _wait_ to introduce you to Alexander!"

* * *

And so it was that, two days later, Tavington found himself marching across the field toward the American camp. True to his word, Cornwallis had refused to accompany them, claiming illness; O'Hara marched at the head of the line in his place, his jaw set and his expression somber. The troops shuffled along behind him as the fifers played a mournful tune. It was, Tavington thought, the most profoundly mortifying experience imaginable to march behind furled flags, and he felt a blinding hatred toward everyone whose stupidity and incompetence had led to this moment.

In marked contrast to the solemnity of the proceedings, however, Lawrence was practically hopping with excitement. He had insisted on bringing his horse along ("But Daniel _must_ be there, sir! Don't you recall his heroics at Guilford Court House?"), and he had somehow managed to affix Hamilton's handkerchief to its head like an old woman's bonnet. He also seemed completely unable to keep from speaking, much to his superior's chagrin.

"…and Alexander _did _mention that there would be sausages at the banquet! Sausages! Can you imagine? I gave up sausages for Lent, but then supplies have been so short since Easter that I haven't been able to indulge myself!" Lawrence sighed and lapsed into a clearly meditative silence, for which Tavington was profoundly thankful.

Apparently thoughts of Hamilton and his sausage were enough to distract Lawrence, because he mercifully kept quiet for the last few moments of their march. As they drew close to the American line, the drums and fifes fell silent, and Tavington was left with nothing to distract him from his infuriation at the situation. A few meters from the Americans, the troops halted their forward motion, and O'Hara stepped forward alone. "Oh, isn't he brave!" whispered Lawrence, a quaver in his voice, as the general walked toward Washington and his companions.

Tavington restrained himself from retorting that surrender was inherently cowardly—why did everyone insist on equating surrender with bravery in this instance?—instead contenting himself with a quelling glare at Lawrence. O'Hara was now offering the sword of surrender to an imposingly tall man who could only be Washington. Tavington felt a thrill of hatred as Washington, instead of accepting the sword, motioned to another officer to accept it. The rebels were ensuring that His Majesty's Army experienced supreme humiliation, and Tavington vowed to himself that he would never forget the absolute indignity of this moment. Nor would he ever willingly consort with an American, be it Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton—or Kat. Woe betide his erstwhile wife if he ever found her, the traitorous minx.

But Tavington's pleasant ruminations on how exactly he would punish Kat for her treason were interrupted by Lawrence, who was pulling frantically at his superior's sleeve. "Colonel! Colonel Tavington! Look! There he is! That's Hamilton!"

Tavington wrenched his arm free and, unwillingly, looked in the direction that Lawrence had indicated. Just next to Washington was stood a short, undeniably well-looking young man with Grecian features. One hand caressed the hilt of an impeccably polished sword, while the other held a lacy white handkerchief embroidered, Tavington could only assume, with his initials. As he glared at this fop who had, inexplicably, beaten the world's greatest military force, Hamilton looked over at Lawrence and, smiling slightly, nodded affably.

"How gentlemanly!" whispered Lawrence loudly, patting his horse's handkerchief-adorned head and gazing with what looked suspiciously like adoration back at Hamilton. A moment later, the ceremony of surrender having been completed, Hamilton stepped forward.

"On behalf of General Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, the officers of the Army of Great Britain here represented are cordially invited to dine with us, in the hope that our two states may have a long and peaceful relationship." Bowing, Hamilton moved back into line with his superior, and the group turned to march across the field toward a handsome manor house. O'Hara, looking pale and resigned, nodded to Tavington, and the Dragoons unwillingly fell into line behind the general—all except Lawrence, who seemed suddenly to fancy himself Tavington's right-hand man.

"I know it's difficult, Colonel," he whispered conspiratorially, patting his horse's flank. "But the Americans seem quite determined to be friendly!"

Tavington could restrain himself no longer. "Captain Lawrence," he spat, "these rebels are traitors. I am loyal to His Majesty, and I shall never forget the fact."

Lawrence looked somewhat abashed and did not attempt to converse further with Tavington until they had reached the house, at which point he was obviously overcome with enthusiasm. "Sausages, sir! Do you smell them?"

Tavington did not answer, instead marching straight past Lawrence, who had stopped to hand over his horse's reins to a stable hand. For a moment, Tavington was tempted to seize the reins away and ride back to the British encampment that very moment. But he was obliged to abandon that happy thought almost as soon as it occurred. He could not afford to ruffle Cornwallis's feathers, or O'Hara's; both men would be useful in advancing his plans once they were all back in London, and neither would be pleased if word got out that he wasn't at this bloody dinner.

Lost in thought as he approached the house, Tavington was startled to be addressed. "You must be Colonel Tavington, _oui_?" said a smooth, pleasant voice, heavily accented. Tavington halted, looking around for the speaker, and saw an imperious-looking man in a French uniform. "Lee has told me about you. I am called Lafayette."

Tavington's blood had begun to boil at the mention of Lee—either one to whom the man referred was a mortal enemy—and the revelation of the Frenchman's identity did nothing to calm him. The Marquis de Lafayette was as foul a name as Alexander Hamilton to the British, and Tavington, observing his enemy face to face, was utterly incensed at the idea that these two princocks were largely responsible for the final defeat of His Majesty's Army.

Evidently Tavington's rage was visible on his countenance, because Lafayette was regarding him coolly, eyebrows raised. "I would say I am charmed to meet you, but I suspect zat you would not agree," Lafayette said, clearly unperturbed. "We are at peace now, Colonel Tavington. I am at your service." He bowed deeply.

Feeling he had no other option, Tavington jerked his head in a curt approximation of a bow and growled, "Colonel William Tavington at yours."

At that moment, Lawrence appeared, and Tavington suddenly felt that perhaps he would not try quite so hard to block his underling's promotion to Major when they returned to London. "Oh! You must be Lafayette! It's quite an honor, sir! Captain James T. Lawrence at your service!" He bowed several times during this short speech, making him look rather like the work of a confused puppeteer.

"Ah, Captain Lawrence, ze honor is mine. Hamilton speaks very highly of you." Lafayette's obvious regard for Lawrence was baffling to Tavington, who was again feeling rather antagonistic toward the yob. "Shall we go in to dine?" Lafayette nodded toward the house's grand doors, through which officers in red and blue coats were filing.

"Oh, yes, please!" Lawrence clapped his hands as the trio began to move toward the door. "I'm so looking forward to the banquet! Alexander—I beg your pardon, Colonel Hamilton—mentioned that there might be sausages, and I do so have a hankering for them!"

Tavington took a deep breath to calm himself, allowing Lawrence and Lafayette to draw ahead of him into the house and out of earshot. Focused solely on the baronetcy that must someday be his, he grasped the hilt of his sword firmly and stepped over the threshold into the house.

* * *

Some three hours later, the meal had wound to a rowdy close, and Tavington felt that if he had to sit for one more minute, he was likely to insert his sword into an unfortunate part of someone's anatomy and cause a diplomatic incident. Lawrence had, most unfortunately, achieved universal popularity throughout the meal; consequently Tavington, who was seated next to him, had to listen to hours of Prussian jokes, lamentable poems Lawrence had composed about his horse's bravery, and, of course, his raptures about the exquisite sausages. The Marquis de Lafayette was rather more taciturn throughout the meal, but Tavington loathed him all the more for his flawless manners.

Just as Tavington was seriously considering challenging Lawrence to a duel simply to have an excuse to leave the ballroom in which they were seated, Hamilton stood up to address the crowd of intoxicated and, now, generally merry men. "Gentlemen, it has been our honor to host you this evening. The meal may be over, but our celebration of peace is not. Let us seal our newfound friendship with dancing!" There was a loud cheer as all present shoved back their chairs and stood to push the tables into the room's periphery. Tavington saw Hamilton pushing his way through the crowd toward where he and Lawrence stood, the latter deep in conversation with Lafayette, who was nodding thoughtfully.

"And those sausages were so _marvelous_! I wonder if I might take one to Daniel? My horse, you know—but of course, horses don't generally eat sausages." Lawrence paused to consider this.

Tavington seized the opportunity to speak, wanting desperately to escape before Hamilton reached them. He could not bear the thought of conversing with both Lafayette and Hamilton—not to mention Lawrence—at once. "I find myself fatigued," he growled, bowing shortly to both of them. "I must bid you good night."

He turned on his heel and strode away before either could respond, but he caught Lawrence's wistful voice behind him as he went. "The poor colonel! You know, he never seems in a humor for dancing now—not since his poor wife—"

With a snarl, Tavington strode out of the ballroom and out the front door, glad to be away from Lawrence and his traitorous friends but incensed by the mention of his wife. He knew it behooved him to continue to play the part of the grieving widower, but he found it increasingly difficult to maintain the role. As soon as he was out of these infernal colonies—and _colonies_ they would ever be, to him—and back in society in London, he would make a new life for himself. A life without Lawrence, or Cornwallis, or any mention of the war except for Tavington's own successes with the Dragoons. A life with the all the fineries that rank and power could obtain. And most of all, a life which did not include even a hint of his former wife.


End file.
